


The Reichenbach Concerto

by hannahrieu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Beating, Drugs Made Them Do It, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Inspired by the film Whiplash, John Plays Rugby, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Med Student John, Murder, Physical Abuse, Richard Brook is Jim Moriarty, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock is a Mess, Teen Sherlock, Threats of Violence, Unilock, Verbal Humiliation, Victor Trevor Being Nice, Virgin Sherlock, poppers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrieu/pseuds/hannahrieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenage Sherlock Holmes is undercover as a music student investigating the death of Carl Powers. He unexpectedly falls in love with medical student John Watson while being terrorized by his music director Richard Brook, whom he suspects is behind the murder. </p><p>Loosely inspired by the film “Whiplash”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BanimalQ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanimalQ/gifts).



> ***Please note this fic contains verbal, physical and sexual violence.***

The room reverberates with a complex chord screaming from a violin. Over, and over, the wail of the crescendo is overwhelming, piercing the ears, pressing on the heart. Strike, strike the bow against the string, long, delicate fingers tapping the fingerboard as the young man - eighteen years of age - moves effortless with the notes, a serenity displayed clearly on his face, eyes lightly closed. His alabaster neck and forehead glistening with sweat as he effortlessly commands another run of the strings. His dark curls stick against his forehead, his lithe frame graceful against the pull of the delicate instrument against his chin. The run becomes frayed; there's slight hesitation...a missed note...a trickle of sweat makes its way over a squeezed eyelid…

The violin solo abruptly halts. A deep ripple appears in the young musician’s smooth forehead as he rubs his palm impatiently over his eye socket. It forces the burning to subside. He sighs, silently admonishing himself, and pulls the violin back up to his chin to begin the piece again. 

Breath catches in his throat as his peripheral eye registers a dark figure looming in the open door way. He swears he locked the door behind him.

He recognizes the visitor, and attempts in vain to form a coherent sentence. "Sorry...I'm, I'm sorry --”

A man, mid-thirties, hair dark and slicked back from his face, assesses the trembling teenage violinist. His eyes are coal black and possess an intimidating, feral intelligence.

The man coos, "It's okay. Stay there." 

The man removes his jacket and hangs it leisurely on the coat rack. He steps back and shove his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. His shirt and shoes are as dark and impeccable as his pants, and his ebony eyes sparkle as he takes in the young man in front of him. 

"What's your name?" 

"Sherlock Holmes, sir." 

"What year are you?"

"I'm a first-year, sir."

The man crosses his arms, giving Sherlock Holmes an appraising look. "You know who I am?"

Sherlock raises his chin slightly. "Yes. Professor Richard Brook."

Professor Brook's stare deepens. "You know what I do?"

"Yes." 

"So," Brook mews, almost singing his response. "You know I'm looking for..." His lips curl. "...Players."

"Yes."

"Then why did you stop playing?"

A hint of confusion fills Sherlock’s fine features before he nods and positions his instrument under his chin. He chooses a difficult piece he has practiced many times, his agile frame slowly relaxing into the flow of the music, moving in time with the notes. The swell of the crescendo is deafening, soulful, and beautiful as it descends softly, the ending, light, lovely as the last note floats away. Sherlock lowers the violin, and looks hopefully at Brook.

The professor sighs loudly with disappointment, puffing out his cheeks and blowing a raspberry with his tongue. 

"Did I say to start playing again?"

Pale, sweaty cheeks turn deep crimson within seconds.

"I thought-" Sherlock stammered. "I misunderstood -"

Brook’s face grows stone cold, yet his eyes are still burning with dark amusement.

"I ask you why you stopped playing," he says icily. "And your version of an answer was to turn into a wind-up monkey playing the fiddle." He groans into his hands. "You're all the same."

Sherlock swallows louder than he mean to. He can’t stop his bow-hand from shaking. "I stopped playing because, um, I thought -"

"Show me your rudiments," Brook snaps.

The violin is under Sherlock’s chin in a flash. He works through the scales, then dives into arpeggios.

"Uh-uh, arpeggios, triple it. TRI-PEL-ET!” commands Brook, clapping his hands widely, moving about the room, back and forth, back and forth.

The bow flies over the strings as plopping sounds of nimble digits over the fingerboard become wilder and wilder. Sherlock struggles, and with each passing moment falls further behind the impossible pace Brook has set with his claps.

Sweat flies from his curls, his eyes tightly shut to keep the wetness from sliding in as he plays faster and faster and he realizes that the sound he’s producing is no longer beautiful but an annoying wail that sounds like a child’s wind-up toy -

The door slams shut with a loud BANG. Sherlock drops the violin from his chin, out of breath, realizing there’s no more clapping, no more performance. Brooks is gone. 

Utterly devastated, Sherlock slumps back against the wall, attempting to process the happenings of the last few moments, when -

The door swings open once again, and Brook bounces inside, a wide smile on his face. He seems surprised to find Sherlock is still in the room. 

"Whoopsie daisy!" says Brooks. "Forgot my coat." He plucks it from the rack and slams the door shut behind him.

The young Sherlock completely deflates, throwing his bow down on the music stand and collapsing heavily into his chair.

"Idiot!" he hisses, as his fist strikes his temple in rage. After several self-berating moments, he manages to rally, his bony elbows in his shirtsleeves protruding like pencils as he packs up his violin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's first day of class. He smokes with his resident advisor Billy Wiggins, who warns him his room might be haunted by the ghost of Carl Powers, and tells him to stay far away from Richard Brook. Of course, Sherlock doesn't listen.

Before Cromwell Music Conservatory of London became an internationally-renowned training ground for classically trained musicians, it's underground caverns housed a well-stocked wine cellar for the enigmatic Duke of Windsor, who had won the old dilapidated monastery in a card game in 1813. Though located in a less than desirable neighborhood in London, the Duke's architectural desires rivaled his taste for good liquor, and he proceeded to restore the old gothic structure to most of its former glory. Upon his death, he donated the land and the building to the Sacred Heart Convent, and the nuns wasted no time in selling the libations for funds to fashion Romanesque catacombs in its place (as was the trend in London to do so at the time). However, once the nuns had depleted their savings in engaging several (unethical) barristers to save the structure from demolition (Parliament was all but determined to make the corner upon which the building stood the number twelve station for the new tube line currently being built across the city), the government evicted the nuns and seized the real estate. Her majesty Queen Victoria, though a converted Anglican, was born and raised a good Catholic girl, and was rather incensed when she heard of the maltreatment endured by the hard-working nuns of the Sacred Heart. Miraculously (not to mention immediately) Parliament found a more suitable location for their new number twelve station, and the building and its use became a matter solely of her majesty's discretion. And since the nuns had already moved downtown and happily acclimated to the St. James the Less monastery, the Queen’s wish to turn it into a proper music school seemed its next best use. This decision triggered the prompt removal of some of the dead bodies placed in the catacombs just decades before, transported via paddywagon to the burial grounds near Carrington Abbey. In its place, small, sound proofed rehearsal rooms were built. 

Of course, that was 132 years ago. Due to the expense of keeping up the rest of the facilities, the subterranean level had not been maintained properly, and the stone was crumbling. The stench of mildew permeated the rehearsal rooms, and the steps that led down to the hollowed out core were steep and loose. In 1998 the rooms were considered an official health hazard. The mold count was off the charts, but most students continued to brave the creepy rooms until a generous grant from a wealthy donor prompted its closing. The donated millions were spent to remodel the fourth floor of the main structure, and seventy-five soundproof practice rooms, some with a view of the courtyard, became available for use in August of 2012. As for the old, dilapidated practice rooms underneath the structure, most assumed the entrance had been filled in and sealed off, for safety and structural concerns mandated by the building codes office.

Only the alumni and a few students were privy to the memory of the underground rooms, affectionately known as “the Cellar.” The rest of the world knew Cromwell Music Conservatory to be ornamental classrooms, grand hallways, scrubbed marble and tile, sparkling brass finishes and waxed hardwood floors. To the east, another grand structure, built in the 1920s, was home to the student dormitories. The dorms’ furnishings were on par with the luxury found in the main hall. Large and airy and housing two students per room, each space held two twin beds, two large wooden desks, and a narrow window seat just large enough to sit on. Separating the wings were spacious communal bathrooms nicer than most private clubs, with sinks encased in slabs of granite, toilets housed individually with locking wooden doors, and spacious showers divided by panes of frosted glass. One end of the hallway held the community room, a large area full of leather couches, oak tables, a large flat screen TV and a state of the art sound system.

At the opposite end of every hallway was the tiny single dorm, or the “Sliver” as everyone called it, usually reserved for seniors or resident advisors who craved additional privacy and personal bathroom. 

Sherlock Holmes was not a senior. He was a young looking eighteen year-old freshman with alabaster skin, high cheekbones and shockingly translucent eyes framed by a dark mop of messy curls. He was tall and lithe and dressed impeccably, his back straight and blunt chin held high as he rolled his small trunk up to the door and unlocked it. He grimaced as his shins slammed against the twin bed frame: truly it was the tiniest space the young man had ever seen. The door just cleared the bed, and along the west wall a few sparse bookshelves framed a built in desk with a small wooden chair. A pocket door separated the toilet, shower and sink from the main living space. Thankfully, the ceiling was high and the east wall contained two large windows that opened. Moonlight poured into the room, but disappeared as he flipped on the light switch. 

He wasted no time in unpacking his trunk, which held clothes, books and his laptop. He plopped the computer onto his half-made bed and reached up to open one of the large windows. Cool air swept into the stale dorm room as Sherlock slid a silver case out of his pocket. He pushed a thin cigarette between his shapely lips, lit it with a matching silver Zippo, and took a long drag. 

Not long after, there was a loud knock on the door. 

Sherlock took another long drag, and then flicked the cigarette out the window. 

When he opened the door, Sherlock found a tall, skinny young man with stringy hair and a pencil thin mustache staring back at him, looking bored and maybe a little bit high. He wore an undershirt with cargo pants and sandals with socks. 

"Mr. Holmes, I presume?" he said, his voice dull and nasally.

"Yes?" answered Sherlock. 

"William Wiggins, resident advisor," he said, sticking out his hand. Sherlock shook it. "I know you're new around here, but I need to remind you that there is no smoking," he said, looking past Sherlock into the Sliver. 

Sherlock stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. 

“You are mistaken, as I do not - “

" -L&M’s no filter, pack’s old. You dipped into your emergency stash,” said Wiggins, unfazed. “Forgot to stop on the way in. Or couldn’t. Family doesn’t know?” He looked expectantly at the young man.

"Impressive," conceded Sherlock. 

“Not really,” said Wiggins. “I just observe. I’ll have to write you up though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s preposterous. I just got here!”

“Aye, but I’ve got to follow the rules...unless…”

Sherlock gave him a weary look. “Unless what?”

"Can I bum one?"

“You can’t be serious.”

"Serious as a heart attack!" said Wiggins. He looks around to make sure they are alone, then leans in and whispers. “Besides, you need to know a few things, living in there.” His eyes looked past Sherlock at the door behind him. 

"All right," he sighed, stepping aside. 

Wiggins made his way into the room and pulled the tiny desk chair up against the wall, balancing expertly along the window sill and pushing the large window open as far as it would go. He then hoisted himself up, disappearing into the night sky.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock impatiently.

Wiggin’s head popped back into the open window. "You’ll see. Don’t forget the matches!"

Sherlock scrambled up the same way. He found Billy Wiggins stretched out on a long narrow ledge overlooking an overgrown garden. The roofline of the dorm hid the ledge from view, and several long, unkempt branches from old oak trees kissed the rim of the slab of stone.

"Oh this is going to be glorious" said Wiggins, rubbing his hands together, whether in eagerness or because of the cold, Sherlock couldn't tell. 

Sherlock pulled out the L&M’s, and Wiggins plucked one from the case. Sherlock lit it for him and then one for himself as they both laid back against the outside wall. Wiggins exhaled, smoke briefly covering the entirety of his narrow face.

“You know about the Sliver's last resident," he said.

"Sliver?" asked Sherlock. “You mean my dormitory?”

Wiggins coughed a little. "Aye. These are quite stale. But, beggars can't be choosers I suppose." He turned to Sherlock with large, coherent eyes. "Carl Powers. Ring a bell?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “The student who accidentally drowned?”

Wiggins took another drag. “That’s what they say, anyway.”

Sherlock patted the ledge.“Did he show you this?”

“Nah, I showed him,” responded Wiggins. “I’m a fourth year. Known about this for ages.” He gestured to the ledge and out to the browning, forgotten garden in front of him. “Coulda been mine, but, you know.” He looked guiltily at Sherlock. 

“Did he die in...?” Sherlock gestured toward the window.

Wiggins nodded his head, his eyes wide. “You didn’t know?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “What was he like?”

“Kept to himself, mostly,” said Wiggins. “Typical rich kid. Family issues. Did drugs.” He pulled a flask out of his trousers and took a swig. He offered it to Sherlock, who declined. “What do you play?”

“Violin. My first class is tomorrow.” 

“Oh, to be a first year again,” chuckled Wiggins. He pointed a thumb at his chest, and smiled. “Lead trombone in Concert band. Found a position with the philharmonic come January.”

"Congratulations."

“Thanks,” said Wiggins. “I can’t believe I survived. That bloody Brook is a nightmare.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing in curiosity.

“He’s a bully,” he said. “He has this reputation for being such a great teacher, but I never learned a thing from him, except how to duck.” He took a long drag off the cigarette, seemingly deep in thought. “Watch yourself,” he continued. “Bloody Brook goes after beginners and concert players. Especially on the new practice floor. There’s been talk about some real pervy things going on.” He took another swig from his flask. “I think of the Cellar as the good ole days.” 

“Catacombs,” mumbled Sherlock. “I’ve read up a bit on the building’s history,” he quickly added.

“That’s true,” answered Wiggins. “The rooms were finally condemned. It gave me a bloody headache, all the mold and dust down there. Can’t say I was sad when they filled it in and opened the new floor.” He sighed. “But then Brook showed up and we all had to start watching each other’s backs.” 

“Did he ever come after you?” 

Wiggins shook his head. “Nah. I mean yeah he yelled at me and called me fucking stupid, but he never, you know, touched me or anything.” He flicked his cigarette over the ledge and stood up, tucking the flask back into his trousers. 

“I’ll let you smoke in there if we can do this time and again,” said Wiggins, opening the window. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock said, then added, “Billy, where did they find him?”

“Face down in the shower,” said Wiggins grimly. “The Yard said he drowned in an inch of water.” He suddenly looked as if he might cry, but managed to pull himself together. “Night, Sherlock,” he said, crawling back through the window.

“Night.”

Sherlock sat on the ledge and chain-smoked until he couldn’t feel his fingers, and slipped back inside to the Sliver.

 

*****

The next morning, the cool, autumn sun was just peaking above the horizon as Sherlock Holmes made his way across the busy, breath-taking campus of Cromwell Music Conservatory. Headphones covered his ears as his iPod blasted Tchaikovsky, his music an armor he often wore when heading into a battlefield of social interaction. He held his instrument closely to his side, protecting it from the hundreds of students walking by, all carrying cases of various sizes and shapes.

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been to university, but one didn’t remain unknown on a campus as small as Cromwell. Sherlock had enjoyed a certain anonymity while at Cambridge. He was the youngest of all the science students and he excelled at his studies, so he spent most of his time running lab experiments or doing research in the library alone. He despised his roommate, so he always snuck into his dorm at odd hours in order to shower and change clothes, and often chose to sleep in remote places around campus instead of returning to his own bed. He had been well on his way to becoming an esteemed chemist and researcher, lacking only a few credits to complete his terminal degree.

Being expelled from Cambridge had come as a complete surprise, and it wounded him more than he’d ever care to admit. 

Which was why Cromwell had become so important. It was where Sherlock could redeem himself, to jumpstart a career he could stand to pursue. Mycroft had blustered around for a good two weeks once Sherlock announced his wishes to enroll in the prestigious music school. His big brother even went as far to dissuade their father from using any influence to secure Sherlock’s very late registration papers. 

“This is a complete waste of time,” Mycroft said. “Squandering your potential has become your occupation, baby brother.” 

To which Sherlock had responded, “Then I’m quite the entrepreneur.”

Mycroft snorted and shook his head. “Pure insolence. You won’t last.”

Sherlock didn't have a comeback for that one. He knew Mycroft was right.

Sherlock stepped carefully onto the wide, three tiered staircase that led up to the large main doors. The sweet sound of the violins swelling in his ears made the noisy students swarming around him tolerable. He was about to pull open one of the main doors when a sudden movement behind an overgrown set of bushes along the building gave him pause. Sherlock slowed and discreetly peered around the landscaping. 

Two figures were barely visible behind the greenery. A tall, gangly ginger boy stood in front of a shorter boy with sunkissed blonde hair. They were laughing and touching. The ginger boy gently pushed the blonde up against the stone wall covered in ivy and kissed him. The kiss grew passionate as the ginger boy’s fingers were brushed the blonde’s cheeks. The ivy moved along with them, tearing and falling around them. The boys chuckled.

Sherlock, who had witnessed more salacious scenes in his short 18 years, found his face hot and his body flooded with fire. He found he couldn’t avert his eyes. Sherlock was a master at observing detail, but he wasn’t a voyeur. This was new. He leaned against the building off to the side, out of view, and watched the two lovers, who were blissfully unaware of their audience of one. 

A tap on his shoulder, and he quickly turned, pulling off his headphones. 

“Lost?” 

Sherlock turned to find an incredibly attractive young man standing behind him. His hair was dark and wavy, his eyes a warm brown. He smiled, and a prominent dimple appeared next to his lips. 

“Most likely,” Sherlock quipped, whipping out his well-practiced amenability in place of his usual abruptness. “Bit new around here.”

“Ah, a squeaker,” responded the man. He extended his hand. “Victor Trevor.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

They briefly shook hands as Victor nodded toward the front door. “Come on. I’ll show you where Beginner band meets.”

“How’d you know?” Sherlock immediately turned on the charm with a big grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Oh, all squeakers start in Beginner band,” he said, opening the door for Sherlock. They entered into the building, and Sherlock was temporarily distracted by the gorgeous arches and gold leaf trimmings along the massive hallway. “As they await to be called up by Maestro Brooks.” Victor’s eyes narrowed. “You do know who Richard Brook is, right?”

“Of course!” Sherlock’s crystal eyes feigned excitement. “Who doesn’t know Professor Richard Brook!”

Victor smiled, his dimple striking a pose next to his ample lips. “Well, he’s tough. But if he believes in you, he’ll make you believe in yourself,” he said. 

Sherlock observed deep skin flushing at the base of the young man’s neck. He wished he were in a position to take Victor’s pulse. Love affair?

Victor dropped him off at a doorway. Above the frame were the words “Beginner” in gold lettering.

“Thank you, Victor,” said Sherlock, brushing past him and intentionally rubbing his shoulder with his own. 

“Your welcome. And hey -,” he called out to Sherlock, who had just turned to go in the door. “We have an informal group practice every Monday night, 4th floor lounge. You’re welcome to join us.” He nodded at Sherlock’s violin case. “I’m concert band, fourth year,” he said, winking. “First violin.”

“Well, I had no idea.” said Sherlock appreciatively, winking back. Victor laughed, his dimples making him look several years younger. The young man disappeared into the crowd, but Sherlock continued to gaze after him. There was something about Victor, something unusual, that Sherlock couldn’t quite deduce. He made a note that further data was needed. 

The Beginner band classroom was simple and soundproofed, with chairs in a semi-circle five rows deep and ten chairs wide. Sherlock referenced his syllabus and found his seat. A thin, long-faced man sat to the right of him, dropping his folder heavily onto the music stand. He glared at Sherlock. 

“Name’s Anderson,” he said. “I don’t care what your name is. But you’re my second chair, and your job is to turn pages and stay out of my way.”

Sherlock only side-glanced Anderson, but he knew from just a moment’s observation that he the man was not worth the time. Sherlock’s lack of response, on the other hand, only added fuel to Anderson’s fire. 

“Too good to answer, huh? Typical bourgeoisie prick,” he mumbled. 

Sherlock muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Anderson to hear. “Oh fuck off,” he said. 

“What did you say?” hissed Anderson. 

Sherlock ignored him as he caught an eyeful of the blonde from the bushes; fourth row back, brass section, trumpet in hand. A smile played at the corner of his red and swollen lips. Sherlock almost felt jealous.

The director entered the room and stepped up onto the block and rapping his baton against his music stand. 

“Welcome everyone,” he said. “I see some familiar faces, I see some new faces. We are here first and foremost to learn from me, from the music, and from each other. To become the master not only of our one instrument, but of becoming one with the orchestra as a whole.” The director raised his baton. “So let’s begin. Scales please. ”

Sherlock brought his violin to his chin, and struck his first note for Cromwell Music Conservatory. 

*****

The opulent staircases that led to the fourth floor were wide and two-tiered, separated by a ten meter landing space that held antique vases, busts and tapestries donated from wealthy patrons from the past one hundred and thirty years. The wide, open walls were covered with portraits of men and women long dead. The third floor, where the administrative and faculty offices were housed, boasted marble counters that had been shipped in from Italy. Hanging at the entrance of the fourth floor practice hall was Repin’s original portrait painting of Mikhel Glinka, the father of Russian classical music. 

Sherlock memorized every detail as he entered the fourth floor. He pushed through the glass doors that guarded the music study and made his way through a large multi-purpose room complete with oak tables, chairs and glass shelves full of sheet music and books. Except for the occasional closing of a door or ruffling of papers, the fourth floor was eerily silent. 

He made his way down the rows and rows of small practice rooms. A skinny glass window was on each wooden door covered by a privacy shade from the inside. He glanced side to side, sometimes catching glimpses of the musicians inside the tiny rooms when a shade had been opened or accidentally knocked crooked. Sherlock hoped to find an open room that faced the courtyard, but the only one vacant was at the end in a corner near the back door. 

He was pleased to find the door locked from the inside. The room was fitted with a chair, music stand, a coat rack, large bench and two small shelves. One shelf held a stylish wooden metronome, while the other was filled with mineral oil, polish, cloths and cork grease. 

He turned on the metronome as he settled into his chair and began to play his assigned music. Within a half an hour, he’d mastered the piece. Satisfied, he turned off the metronome, and began to play for pleasure. His fingers led the way to piece he had composed over the summer called Violet (avec les beaux yeux). It was a sentimental piece that reminded Sherlock of his childhood, when his mother was vibrant and beautiful and loved to shamelessly dote on her children, especially her youngest.

Mycroft had told his brother on more than one occasion that caring was not an advantage and that sentiment was a form of weakness. Sherlock had chosen to subscribe to this same school of thought, though his desire for a friend, a partner, even -God forbid -a lover, had always been there, buried deep inside him, covered up by a brilliant, freight train of a brain and a thick layer of cynicism. 

And there was Seb. He’d never told another living soul, but at Cambridge, he was pursued by a young man, Sebastian Wilkes, who lived in his dormitory. Sherlock had eagerly responded to his advances, so much so that the relationship had become physical. But after some months, he discovered the Seb’s intentions were not sincere, and were instead motivated by a friendly wager made between he and his roommates. It had been a devastating experience, and Sherlock had become deeply guarded since the day the ruse was revealed. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been playing, but the sweat trickling down his forehead fell into his eyeball, and he stopped briefly to rub his palm over his eye socket. 

A chill gripped his spine as he became aware of a dark figure standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard the door open...and he was positive he’d locked it behind him. 

He recognized the visitor immediately. Sherlock suddenly felt as if he were the one trespassing.

"Sorry...I'm, I'm sorry --

The man, mid-thirties, hair dark and slicked back from his face, assessed him with coal black eyes. 

"It's okay. Stay there," said the man smoothly. He removed his jacket and hung it leisurely on the coat rack. He stepped back, hands buried in his pockets. 

Sherlock stood perfectly still, like the hairs standing on the back of his neck.

"What's your name?" 

"Sherlock Holmes, sir." 

"What year are you?"

"I'm a first-year, sir."

The man crossed his arms. "You know who I am?"

"Yes. Professor Richard Brook." Sherlock said the name succinctly, pronouncing every syllable. A sly smile broke into the corner of the man’s tightly closed lips.

"You know what I do?"

"Yes." 

"So," Brooks said, louder than necessary. “You know I'm looking for...players."

"Yes."

"Then why did you stop playing?"

Sherlock immediately obeyed the implied command. He played the most difficult piece he knew, Locatelli's Caprice in D major Op. 3 No. 23 'Il labirinto armonico. For a full three minutes, he worked the strings with his fingers and bow through the hell of the solo, crescendoing into the high note, holding it, until the sound slowly diminished.

The violin and bow dropped to his sides. He waited, chest heaving, sweat trickling down his back, for Brooks’s reaction. 

The professor sighed loudly, and rudely puffed out his cheeks, blowing a raspberry with his tongue. 

"Did I say to start playing again?" he whined.

Sherlock jerked, and felt the heat rising in his cheeks. 

"I thought-" Sherlock stammered. "I misunderstood -"

Sherlock stiffened as Brooks’s approached him. 

"I ask you why you stopped playing," he said "And your version of an answer was to turn into a wind-up monkey playing the fiddle." He groaned into his hands. "You're all the same."

Sherlock felt his bow hand tremble. _Am I actually frightened of this man? _"I stopped playing because, um, I thought -"__

Brooks looked at him like he was the stupidest creature to ever walk the Earth. 

"-Show me your rudiments," Brooks snapped, cutting off the young musician mid-sentence. He clapped his hands slowly, moving about the room, back and forth, back and forth.

Sherlock struck his bow against the strings and played, at first easily keeping up with Brooks’s pace, then struggled, then fell embarrassingly behind.

More sweat trickled down his temple, down his back. He found himself losing control of the instrument, of the tone, of the note, of the sound. No longer was his violin under his command. He only heard an annoying wail, a sound like a child’s wind-up toy.

A loud BANG made him jerk so hard he almost dropped his instrument. He looked up, and realized Brooks has left. The door had been slammed shut. Sherlock was alone. 

He slumped against the wall to catch his breath. 

Well-versed in techniques to intimidate. Controlled approval, fear, verbal abuse, criticism, possible isolation and activity pedagogics - 

The door swung open, and Sherlock locked eyes on Brooks, who seemed surprised to find Sherlock is still in the room. 

"Whoopsie daisy!" said Brooks. "Forgot my coat." 

Brooks slammed the door shut again as Sherlock threw his bow down on the music stand and collapsed heavily into his chair.

"Idiot!" he hissed. Rage bubbled inside of him. He struck his temple with his fist. The pain radiated through his eyeball. 

_He’s manipulating you with mind techniques even a child could recognize._

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, still unnerved. This was not going to be as easy as he thought. 

He quickly packed up his violin and music and ducked out the back door. 

 

********

With each descending step Sherlock grew more and more convinced that Maestro Richard Brooks was doing more than teaching young musicians at Cromwell. No doubt the man was fueled by a deep, dark desire to harm others. It wasn’t Brooks’s abruptness or demands or cutting words that Sherlock found disconcerting; it was the soulless intelligence behind those dark eyes, the sadistic streak that ran seamlessly through every word he spoke and every action he took. Brooks wasn’t just a temperamental diva, he was a force of nature, an anomaly. A personification of evil.

Sherlock was utterly, irrefutably infatuated. 

Sherlock knew he should go back to the Sliver, change out of his sweat-soaked clothes and go to sleep. The crisp, night air quickly chilled him to the bone. He perched for a moment against the main entryway, out of the wind. 

With grace that rivaled a danseur, Sherlock slipped over railing and dropped down behind the overgrown bushes, right where he’d seen the two young men earlier that day. He lit the torch on his iPhone, the weak beam of light highlighting the broken strands of ivy hanging down over the stone wall. Sherlock pushed the thick, old vines aside and felt carefully along the wall, his fingers coming to rest on an old metal lever he'd seen earlier, attached to a large, wooden door. 

After glancing around one more time to make sure he was alone, Sherlock bit down on the clip of his phone case, and by torchlight, he pulled the lever with both hands and with a groan, the ancient bulwark swung open. 

He spit out the phone into his hand and shined the light directly inside the large frame. A narrow, stone-carved set of stairs curled down into the darkness. 

Shocked at the discovery and not quite sure of his next step, Sherlock quickly shut the door and placed the thick vines of ivy back over the entrance, obscuring it from view. 

He high-tailed it back to the Sliver, already making plans for his next midnight excursion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While playing chess in the park, Sherlock meets medical student John Watson.

Postman’s Park in central London was full of people the next afternoon, all enjoying the warm October sun before autumn’s end. Sherlock and his brother, Mycroft, faced off on opposite ends of a large chessboard in the middle of the grass. The elder brother moved his black knight, a chess piece knee-high in size.

“Knight to B-7” said Mycroft with a boorish yawn, as he pushed the black piece four spaces.

“Are you sure you want to do that?" teased Sherlock. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Positive," he responded with an air of snobbery. He tugged on his navy Burberry sweater, his dress shirt and tie tucked neatly underneath. 

No one would be surprised to learn the two are brothers. Both young men oozed impeccable breeding, with straight as an arrow spines and reddish highlights in otherwise raven black hair. Sherlock's curls were wild in the wind, whereas Mycroft's slicked hair was tucked neatly under a pageboy cap.

Sherlock moved his pawn and approached an older woman knitting on a bench adjacent to the board.

"Mrs. Hudson," smiled Sherlock. He reached for a kiss on the cheek. The woman, in her late sixties, chirped in response.

"My boy, taking pleasure in beating your brother in public. It's not decent," she said, but a smile played on the edge of her lips as she ran her hand in a motherly way through Sherlock's curls. 

"You alright?" she said, concerned. "You seem tired."

"I'm well, thank you."

Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue in reproach. "If you say so, dear..."

"He had me play yesterday," he said nonchalantly.

"Who did?" asked Mycroft. "Your move."

Sherlock surveyed the board, and moved his white bishop. "Maestro Richard Brook."

Mrs. Hudson gasped with anticipation. "And...?"

Sherlock shrugged. Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue again and picked up her knitting.

Mycroft didn't take his eyes off the board as he spoke. "You still have other options."

Sherlock squinted. "Oh, please."

"You're one of the most brilliant minds in the country, Sherlock. You have a variety of professions to pursue." Mycroft moved his rook. 

"As long as I pursue the right one, you mean."

"Being expelled from one of the top universities in the world due to harboring an illegal substance does not allow for the liberties you are enjoying at the moment, dear brother."

"Yet here I am," Sherlock smirked, his arms spread wide. He then made a move, and Mycroft grimaced. Sherlock savored the moment.

"I wanted to be a published romance novelist by the age of 23," said Mrs. Hudson dreamily. "Then when that didn't happen, I pushed it to 30. Then to 40."

Sherlock glanced at her skeptically. “And that didn't bother you?"

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "I don't know. There are other things in life to care about. Friends, romance, children." She stopped and smiled at both Mycroft and Sherlock. "It's just life. At my age, you get perspective."

Sherlock thought for a moment, and said, "I don't want perspective." 

He picked up his white queen to move it across the board, just as a heavy, roundish object flew into the middle of the game. 

It hit Sherlock squarely on top of the head.

He fell back into the grass in slow motion, landing hard on his coccyx. 

“Sorry!” came a breathless shout. "Oh no!" said the young man running up to Sherlock's side. "Watson! Get Watson!"

It's the last thing Sherlock heard before he passed out cold.

********

Sherlock awoke, looking up at a man he didn't recognise. He thought the bloke was desperately attractive, and the was sun positioned directly behind him producing a glowing halo around his head.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” said the man. 

“Mmmmm,” replied Sherlock. He smiled lazily at the man. “Angel,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Hudson face popped into view. “Angels! Oh, Sherlock. He’s completely out of it, isn’t he?”

The young man smiled back at Sherlock. “Do you know where you are?”

Sherlock realized he was lying on the ground in the park with a crowd of people surrounding him. He felt himself flush with embarrassment. 

The man was responding kindly to Mrs. Hudson. “He’s coming ‘round. See?” He cradled Sherlock’s head. “Sit up, mate?” 

Sherlock shook his head, but it made him grimace and he shut his eyes. He felt himself pulled easily to his feet.

When he felt like he could finally see without throwing up, he found himself towering over the sturdy young man who’d helped him stand up. “Thank you,” he managed. 

“Name’s Watson. John Watson,” said the man. He held out his hand for Sherlock, and Sherlock gingerly shook it. 

Sherlock observed. Blonde, tan, deep blue eyes, gentle and clever. Kind expression. Trained in first aid, but with an experienced bedside manner. Medical student?

“You’re going to be fine. Just a big bump on the head,” said John Watson. “If you do start to feel nauseous, or have any severe headaches, might want to see your doctor, just in case.” 

“Thank you so much, dear,” cood Mrs. Hudson. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“Yes, thank you for your services,” said Mycroft, approaching his brother. “It’s good to know there are those with some civility in your sport.” He turned and glared at a tall, muscular rugby player standing off to the side. “I hope you’re willing to compensate for any damages that he may have sustained.”

John Watson failed to suppress a smirk at Mycroft’s comment, which made Sherlock like him even more. He allowed his eyes dip below the young man’s face to observe filthy rugby regalia, neck and arms dirty from play.

"It won’t happen again,” John said loudly, making Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Then, looking right at Sherlock, a bit softer said, “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Watson?” said his teammate, who looked extremely uncomfortable and ready to flee.

John nodded in respect to both Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, then motioned for his teammate as they jogged back to the field, rugby ball in hand.

Sherlock couldn’t help but follow John Watson’s trajectory back across the grass. 

Mrs. Hudson watched him go as well. “You seem to have made an impression.”

“Quite,” smirked Mycroft. “Up for finishing the game, loverboy? It won’t take long.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, the jab bringing him back to himself. “Oh sod off, Blood,” he said, glancing at the board. He suddenly has no interest in chess. 

“Hmpf,” remarked Mycroft. He walked back and forth, eyeing the board. "I’m serious, Sherlock. Cromwell is beneath you. I’d wish you’d reconsider.”

“It’s none of your business, Mycroft.”

Mycroft hiked a foot and leaned on one of Sherlock’s claimed pawns. “I make it my business, baby brother. You might find this hard to believe, but I worry about you. Constantly.”

Sherlock jonesed for a cigarette as his head throbbed, and Mycroft’s confessions of brotherly love were not helping. He angrily snapped back. “I don’t need you to worry, and I don’t need your help.”

Mycroft sighed, resigning to Sherlock’s stubbornness. “Very well,” he said. “But in the future, I do advise watching out for your king.” He made his final move. “Checkmate," he said, as Sherlock’s shoulders deflated. 

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “Really, Mycroft, was that necessary?”

“He hates it when I let him win,” Mycroft replied innocently. 

*******

After he’d finally convinced Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson he wasn’t about to pass out or die, Sherlock walked deeper into the park to his favorite spot, a large fountain with a giant fish spraying water from its mouth and gills. 

He slid down against a concrete slab and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled from his lips and streamed out of his nose. He reached up and touched the tender bump still swelling on the top of his head. 

A group of rugby players walked by, talking loudly and playfully pushing each other along the fountain. One broke off, and approached Sherlock. 

It was John Watson. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” he said. “You alright?”

Sherlock straightened up immediately. He uncharacteristically cursed himself for the cigarette in his hand and chucked it into the fountain.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he said in his deepest honeyed baritone. “Thank you.” 

“Watson, you coming?” yelled one of his teammates. 

“I’ll catch up!” he yelled back. “You mind?” he said, pointing to the open space next to where Sherlock was sitting. 

“Not at all,” Sherlock managed, though his heart was suddenly beating inside his throat. 

John dropped his rucksack at his side. Army-issued, at least 20 years old, observed Sherlock. A textbook jutted out from the corner. 

“I’m really sorry about what happened,” he said. “My new mate doesn’t know his arse from an ankle tap. I’ve never seen a ball go flying like that in my life, let alone nail someone in the head as squarely as it did yours.”

“My brother probably thought it did me some good,” said Sherlock. 

“That pretentious arsehole is your brother?” John stopped and shook his head. “Ah, probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Sherlock’s eyes skimmed over John Watson’s wide-necked jumper thrown over his sweaty shirt clinging to his sturdy shoulders, his powerful thighs filling out the tight rugby shorts, a glimpse of skin on his flat abdomen as he bended forward to tie his shoelace. Sherlock chuckled. “Actually, he is a pretenious arsehole. Excellent observation.”

A silent beat passed between them. 

“You’re a medical student,” Sherlock said abruptly. 

John sat up as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, how’d you - ?”

“A surgeon.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Uh, yeah, right again.”

Sherlock hesitated. He’d been down this road before, his gifts of observation and deduction never winning him friends. In fact, it often proved quite the opposite. He’d made up his mind to stop when John Watson said:

“Go on.”

Sherlock glanced wearily at John, but continued. “By your age and the wear on your textbook you’re a fourth year. You come here often, to study and to play with a local rugby team. You like to compete, you enjoy the violence of the sport, it’s a form of stress relief for you. Barts is a block and half south from here. That’s where you receive your medical training. No doubt your father was a military man, judging by the army rucksack in which you carry your books. You plan to follow in his footsteps and enlist after your studies in medicine, specifically in surgery, are complete.”

John’s expression was surprisingly unreadable. “How do you know that I’m going to be - “

“A surgeon? One, you are good with your hands, steady, and two, you have small hands, surgeon hands. If you hadn’t decided to become a surgeon someone would have eventually suggested it. You still study your first-year anatomy textbook but it's nowhere near exam time, so you are on rotations, mostly on your own. You’re practice year is approaching, so you want to be prepared."

John shook his head, looking a little dazed.

"That was amazing."

What? "Sorry?"

"Brilliant," praised John. "Nobody’s ever just, you know, knew me like that before."

It was in that moment, unbeknownst to both men at the time, that Sherlock Holmes fell in love with John Watson.

"People usually tell me to piss off,” Sherlock replied, a ghost of a smile playing on his ample lips.

John's own lips curled and a puff of laughter breached his cheeks."Well, you did get something wrong,” he teased.

“Oh?”

“I haven’t decided to join the military. Not yet at least,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. He looked down at his knees. “I have to decide by December if I want to be an officer.”

“That doesn’t appeal to you?" said Sherlock. 

“Not really,” he said thoughtfully. “But, on the other hand, being able to pull rank might come in handy someday.” He then reached forward, and oh-so gently brushed Sherlock’s long, delicate fingers with his own short, blunt ones. “I can’t do what you do, you know.”

Sherlock's pale eyes lit up at John’s touch, but he instinctively pulled his hand away. 

John, in response, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I hope I didn’t offend,” he said softly.

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock said emphatically. "I’m not accustomed to...” Flirtation? Attention? Being touched? “Forgive me.”

John studied Sherlock for a moment then shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I’m shit at pulling a bloke,” he sighed.

Sherlock felt himself blush. Liar. “Ask me,” said Sherlock. “Anything.’

John cracked a smile. “Cheers. Okay, let’s see...you go to school?”

“Yes. Cromwell. Live there, in the dorms.”

“Cromwell, a musician then,” answers John. 

“Violin.”

John smiles openly. "Ah, I played clarinet in grammar school. Not quite the same though.”

“I'm excellent violinist,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly. “My instructors however don't seem to think I'd be a successful concertmaster."

"Funny, you strike me as someone who could probably do whatever he wanted and be successful at it," John said thoughtfully.

Sherlock felt his face burn like fire from the sincere praise tumbling from John Watsons lips. 

“Other interests? Hobbies?”

"I’ve obtained multiple credits in Chemistry from Cambridge, but I was expelled before I could complete my terminal degree. And I'm studying forensics on my own at the moment. I have catalogued thousands of soil samples throughout London and I just completed an analysis of tobacco ash.”

“Tobacco ash?”

“There are at least 240 different types of tobacco ash,” said Sherlock. “It’s amazing what one can learn from simple observation.”

"I bet," John hid his smile behind a cough. "And you come to Postman’s Park often? To play chess with your brother and mother?"

"Mmm? Oh no, our former governess. Mrs. Hudson. She would take us here as children, to the chess set," Sherlock shifted, allowing his long legs to stretch out in front of him. “Our father felt chess was ‘food for the brain’. Mrs. Hudson worried we didn’t get enough fresh air. Hence, Postman’s Park.”

“I get it,” said John. “My old man thought I’d grow taller if I played a contact sport. Thinking it’d produce more testosterone or something.”

“That's preposterous.”

“No shit. I’ve been in rugby since I was a boy and I’ve had three cracked ribs, a broken shoulder and a concussion. I’m bloody five feet six,” snorted John. “Not too clever, my dad.”

“Mine either,” grumbled Sherlock. “I’ve yet to win a chess game against Mycroft.”

A couple walked by, arm in arm, laughing and talking. Both men glanced up and watched them pass.

"So you got kicked out of uni, you smoke cigarettes, collect tobacco ash, and admit that relationships aren’t really your area," surmised John. "Anything else I need to know before I ask you out on a date?"

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. Date? "I think that about covers it," he replied.

"Okay then," said John. “Tuesday, 2pm. You, me and London.”

Sherlock was genuinely thrilled with the invitation. He didn’t hesitate to respond. 

"Sounds lovely, John."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor has a secret. Professor Brooks wants to take Sherlock to the next level.

Beginner band was anything but amateur hour. The men and women selected to attend Cromwell were some of London’s finest young musicians. Sherlock was a talented violinist, but he didn’t breeze through the sessions nor did he find himself able to skip practicing his assigned music. 

Anderson, first chair violinist for beginner band, was a flawless technical player, though he was disliked by most of his classmates. Today’s choice of music was wreaking havoc on everyone’s nerves, but Anderson was in rare form. He cursed under his breath as the brass once again missed their cue. The director stepped off the box to work one on one with the trumpets, leaving the rest of the orchestra bored out of their minds. 

Sherlock dropped his violin onto his knee. He could feel Anderson rolling his eyes next to him, an impatient sigh escaping his large nose. 

Sherlock took the moment to close off and enter his mind, to gather his thoughts, to straighten out all the happenings of the last week and place it in the appropriate file in his brain. He was surprised to find so many of entries on John Watson. He was spending a lot more time than he realized researching, or if he were being honest about it, daydreaming, about the young medical student. Sherlock's investigation had been pretty thorough, but had revealed little. John had an open Facebook profile, but the last entry was an uploaded photo of him with a young blonde woman in front of a Christmas tree with a caption that read “Harry.” St. Bart’s media page consistently featured his name on the dean’s list. Archives from the North West Evening Mail in Barrow showed an obituary for a “Hamish S. Watson” who died in 2009 and was ‘preceded in death by his parents, Truvy and Hamish W. Watson and is survived by his wife, Sandra, and his two children Harriet and John.’ This led to Sherlock hacking into the Barrow County Coroner's database to look up John’s father’s cause of death: advanced heart disease and liver failure. He was only 41. 

It was the walking contradiction that was John Watson that intrigued Sherlock the most, since most people bored him to death. John seemed kind and clever, but there was an edge to him that Sherlock hadn't quite figured out yet. Sherlock wondered for a brief moment if he had romanticized their initial meeting to the point their date, now less than 24 hours away, would be a disappointment. But then again, he’d never been on a real date, so he didn't know what to expect. Sebastian had driven him out to the country a few times, but they had never gotten out of the car. 

Sherlock was jostled out of his thoughts by a swelling of whispers around him. The director was still working with the brass in the back of the room. Half of the players were craning their necks towards the right for a better look at the front entrance. 

Sherlock looked too, and saw a figure of a man behind the frosted glass of the classroom door. He seemed to be listening.

“It’s him,” Sherlock heard someone whisper behind him.

Sherlock surmised quickly that yes, the shadow indeed belonged to Richard Brook.

The director broke up the whispers as he stomped back onto the block and rapped his baton against the music stand. 

“Stop staring at the door and start at bar 72. Everyone…” His arm came down in a fluid motion and the orchestra sounded off, the brass finally hitting their mark as a grin spread across the director’s face. 

Sherlock managed to side glance the door as he played, but Brook was gone.

*****

It was late in the afternoon, and Sherlock, on a break from class, found himself alone in the main hallway perusing the photographs of past classes. He’d determined from the names on the photographs (not to mention a significant family resemblance - not much forking going on in the Powers’ family tree) that Carl was part of a family legacy going back to Victorian times.

Sherlock had begun to leave when he heard it; a beautiful piece of music, full and brazen, pulsing against the stone walls and echoing off the marble-floored hall. The delicate strings, the pulse of the brass, the roar of the cymbal made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He approached a doorway and peered through the tiny window. 

The orchestra was large and the players hyperfocused. Sherlock caught a glimpse of Victor in the front row, his violin resting on his knee as he awaited his cue. His eyes searched for Wiggins, but from that angle he could only see half of the brass section. 

But he could see, quite plainly, Professor Brook in his bespoke trousers and Oxford shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal a light dusting of dark hair on his chest. His wrists flowed gracefully as his body seemed to move fluidly with the sound of the orchestra. 

Sherlock was mesmerized.

As if sensing Sherlock’s presence, Brook turned towards the door. His eyes locked onto Sherlock’s. 

With a flick of his wrist, the orchestra went silent. Sherlock pulled away from the door in a flash, shaken, his chest heaving. He forced himself to be still.

What was that? 

After a few moments the sounds from the orchestra again filled the hallway. Sherlock felt his heartbeat reset to the rhythm to the hypnotizing concerto. He leaned against the door for a long time listening to the piece of music. 

*****

The fourth floor group practice room was encased in glass on all sides from ceiling to floor. The warm light from the sunset reflected off the walls and blinded Sherlock as he walked into the Monday evening practice session.

Once introductions had been made, Sherlock realized he was the only representative from Beginner band. No one, however, seemed to mind. The music they play was pre-selected, a blind read. Everyone was professional and kind, and Sherlock enjoyed the session in spite of himself. 

“So,” said Victor, afterward. “You alright?” He gave the young man a knowing look, and lowered his voice. “Professor Brook told me he heard you play the other night.” Victor looked around to make sure he was out of earshot of the others. “Being concertmaster has its perks.”

“I see,” answered Sherlock, grinning. “So, out with it. What did he think?”

Victor smiled, but pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“So you're not at liberty to say,” pressed Sherlock. He packed up his violin. “Rather naughty of you, to mention it and not give me even a crumb of intel.”

Victor laughed. “If you must know, he hasn’t stop talking about you.”

“Now your taking the piss.”

“No, really,” said Victor. “He’s quite taken with you. I’m rather grateful I’m a fourth year with a secured position in the symphony come January. Otherwise, I’d be a bit jealous.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That was not the commentary I was expecting. He seemed rather disappointed in my performance.”

Victor clasped his hands together and sighed. “He probably told you how boring you were. How you were like all the others?” Sherlock shook his head in agreement. “Like I said before, Brook is tough, but he’s brilliant. An incredible teacher, and an amazing composer.”

“The piece you were playing this afternoon, the one with the violin solo,” said Sherlock. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s his,” replied Victor. “His newest composition, a concerto. It’s called Reichenbach.”

Sherlock paused. His eyes narrowed. 

“It’s a beautiful work, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” answered Sherlock. He looked Victor square in the eye. “I had no idea Maestro Brook was a man of so many talents.” He leaned, his lips near the older student’s reddening ear. “He is lucky to have you as his confidant, nem fielaan?”

Victor nodded his head, then froze, the color draining from his face.

Sherlock cocked his head. “So it is a secret.”

Victor swallowed heavily. “How'd you know?”

“It’s not obvious, if you’re worried,” said Sherlock, picking up his violin case. “Your accent is near perfect when speaking English.”

“Ah,” said Victor, worried. “I don’t speak German.”

“Es gibt Schlimmeres,” replied Sherlock. “Don’t worry, I don’t consider this any of my business.”

Victor visibly relaxed. “Thank you. My history is rather...colorful. And best left in the past. I’m not exactly what I appear to be.”

Sherlock smiled discerningly. “Victor, I think you’ll find there are few who are.”

*****

The next morning, Sherlock walked into the main hall for his morning music theory class when a pretty young woman stopped him in the hallway.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Professor Brook would like to see you."

Sherlock, confused, stopped and buttoned his well tailored jacket with one hand. "Certainly," he said.

Sherlock followed the young secretary into side hallway. She knocked on the closed door of an office at the end of the hall. 

"Come in," said a sing song voice. The woman opened the door.

Dr. Brook sat behind a huge polished mahogany desk. He stood up as Sherlock entered. Brook again was impeccably dressed and groomed. 

"Sherlock! Come in, come in, close the door," said Brook. "I like to chat with students new here to the school."

Sherlock was surprised by the warmth in Brook's voice.

"Yes. I’m - new."

“Ah, hmmm...I was reading your file. Cambridge before this?”

Sherlock tried to hide the suspicion in his voice. The secretary was gone, the door shut behind her. 

"Yes. Chemistry. Research."

“Bravo.” Brook said. He sauntered around his enormous desk and hopped up onto the middle to sit. “A man of many talents. Have a seat.”

Sherlock walked to the overstuffed leather couch along the wall and used the opportunity to observe the Professor’s office. A Grammy award was tucked on a shelf next to a Stradivarius violin, and a couple of Distinguished Alumnus certificates littered the wall, including a rather impressive one from in Hochschule fur Musik in Munich, Germany. One entire wall held a glass case of conducting batons, displayed individually and balanced on wooden pegs.

“When did you start playing?”

“At the age of three.”

“And you feel you’ve found the right subject to study now? Your music?” said Brook with a wave of his pale hand. “Not going to quit this too, are you?”

“There are no plans to end my studies prematurely.”

“Good. Because I loathe quitters,” he said sharply. “Those who don’t finish what they start. Such a waste of time. Of breath.” 

“I understand,” said Sherlock seriously. 

“Do you?” asked Brook. He leaned forward. “Victor told you that I have high hopes for you. I’m even considering moving you into Concert band.” 

“I’d be honored.”

“Why?”

“I want to be where you are.”

Brook giggled. His eyes flicker down Sherlock’s body almost imperceptibly. The older man licked his lips, then bit his lower lip. “For some people, it takes years to find their calling.” 

Sherlock oddly felt as if he were sitting across from a lit bomb about to go off. Brook leaned in, the maestro's eyes briefly locking on the young man's lips. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“It is,” answered Sherlock, forcing himself to not avert his eyes. 

Brook rose and stood confidently, his hands behind his back in the middle of the office. “Okay. I guess that’s it, then. Any questions?”

Sherlock glanced at the conducting baton collection on the wall. Brook's face lit up.

“Ah, my collection! What do you think?”

He motioned for Sherlock to stand with him in front of the wall casing. At least 30 batons were on display. Brook motioned to the one in the upper right hand corner, hanging vertically from a hook.

“This staff dates back to the 17th century. Jean-Baptiste Lully conducting Te Deum for Louis the fourteenth. He tapped this baton in a rhythm.” Brook dramatically moved his arm up and down, swaying to music that wasn’t there. “And he tapped it so vigorously that he smashed his toe, resulting in an infection that eventually killed him.”

Sherlock, rather pleased with the morbidity of the story, smiled. It encouraged the professor to continue. 

“And this one - the long one - was handmade for Henry Wood. 24 inches. Can you imagine, handling 24 inches?” Brook dug his hands into the pockets of his impeccable trousers, a smoldering gaze holding Sherlock's attention.

“No, it would be rather...cumbersome,” answered Sherlock. He knew Brook was enjoying the flush appearing on his cheeks from the blatant innuendo.

“And this one, with the carved oak handle and spindles, belonged to Daniel Turk. He used to wave the baton so high he would hit the chandelier above his head and shower himself with glass!”

“Quite dangerous,” said Sherlock.

“Yes. But a little danger never hurt anyone. Especially when creating beautiful music,” purred Brook. He walked over to the case, punched in a code, and the glass slid open. He pulled out a slick, translucent baton. It glistened in the overhead lights. 

“This baton was made for Queen Victoria after the grand opening of the Conservatory. Isn’t it beautiful?” He handed the baton to Sherlock, who gingerly inspected it from all sides. 

“Crystal?”

“Yes,” said Brook. “Even the bulb. One continuous piece, smoothed and molded. Though one could never use it for conducting. It’s too heavy.” Brook took the baton back from Sherlock, and caressed it tenderly. “It’s my favorite,” whispered Brook, as he gently gripped the baton and ran his fist slowly up and down from the tip to the bulb, up and down. He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes dancing.

“Your favorite baton is a useless one?” asked Sherlock skeptically.

“Oh, it's not useless,” said Brook dangerously. “You just have to use your imagination.” His gaze lingered on Sherlock just long enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He placed the baton back in the case after a brief pause, and hit the control pad, shutting the glass slide.

Dr. Brook draped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and led him back to the door. Sherlock felt fingers lightly stroke the curls at his neck for breath of a moment. It sent an uncomfortable shiver down his body. 

“It was a pleasure chatting, Sherlock. I’ll be thinking about you. If there's nothing else-”

With those words, Brook closed the door. Sherlock stood in the hallway for a moment, then turned and walked into the loo. He needed to scrub the touch of Maestro Brook off his skin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock’s first date leads to an unfortunate discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Brief display sexual/physical violence in this chapter.

Sherlock stood outside the pub near London Tower, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, and considered turning around and heading back to Cromwell. He was terrified, but whether it was because he was afraid John wouldn’t show up or that the young medical student actually would be sitting in that pub awaiting his arrival, he couldn’t be sure.

When Sherlock did finally walk in, he found John at the bar drinking tap water and glancing at an old flip phone.

“I was just texting you,” said John warmly, standing up from the stool briefly, offering Sherlock the seat beside him. “Have any trouble finding the place?”

Sherlock shook his head no and sat down carefully. He glanced at John, the old phone and glass of water. It was obvious he had worked the hospital night shift, had not slept well, and was dying for a cup of coffee.

“Would you like a drink?”

He thought the question odd, until he realized John was obviously strapped for cash. Worried he wouldn’t have enough money for them both, he wasn’t buying anything for himself. Even for Sherlock, the unspoken gesture was rather touching.

“No, I’m fine,” said Sherlock. “Thank you,” he added.

“Okay, well, I guess we can get going,” said John. “I hope you're okay with playing tourist for the day.”

“I don’t mind at all,” answered Sherlock. “I haven’t been to the museums here since I was a child.”

“Good,” he said, lightly placing his palm on Sherlock's back as he stood. “Follow me.”

In just a few short strides they entered around the grounds that made up the Tower of London.

“We picked a good day,” said John. “There’s no one here.”

As they approached the main museum entrance, John tried the door. It was locked.

Sherlock hid a smile. He pointed to the sign on the door.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 _The_ _museum will be closed Tuesday afternoon for our annual staff meeting._ _We will reopen Wednesday morning at 9am. We apologize for any inconvenience._

John turned to Sherlock, looking very serious. “Well, I hope you enjoyed our date,” he deadpanned. “Hope we can do it again sometime. Share a cab back to uni?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle. “Plan B?”

“Aaah, yeah, Plan B.” John looked around, then looked back at Sherlock.

“No Plan B?”

“Nope.”

Their eyes locked; then they both laughed.

John’s face flushed with embarrassment as his hand continuously rubbed his jaw. “I’m really sorry about this.”

“Don’t be,” replied Sherlock. “I think we can find something to do.”

“Like what?” asked John. He stifled a yawn.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then knew exactly where they should go.

“Come on,” said Sherlock. “I’ve got the perfect alternative.”

Sherlock took off and John followed behind, looking a bit confused but curious as to where they were heading. They made their way back to the tube station, where Sherlock stopped and bought two coffees before they just made the train. John sipped the coffee continuously, the hot liquid perking him up.

A short ride later and they exited the train and bounded up the stairs at London Bridge station. Above ground the wind was sharp but the sun was warm, and The Shard, a massive crystal stalagmite jutting from the earth, glistened brightly in the sunshine. Sherlock walked quickly, but John slipped in next to him, both settling into a comfortable stride as they walked a few more blocks, until they came to an old brick church with a tiny sign hanging above an ancient door that read The Olde Operating Theatre Museum and Herb Garret.

“The moment of truth,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at John. He tugged at the door - and it open.

John laughed. “So far so good,” he said.

Inside, a huge, ancient desk was squeezed against one side of the narrow lobby. An even more ancient woman greeted them kindly.

“Hello boys,” she said, her voice cracking with age. “It’ll be five quid for the self tour. 10 for the guided.”

Sherlock pulled out his wallet, but John pushed his hand aside and handed over the money.

The old woman slowly took the money with a shaky hand, then turned and peeled off two old-fashioned two inch tickets from a large spool. She handed one to John and one to Sherlock.

“Take the stairs up to the garret. Watch your step,” then looking at Sherlock added. “And your head.”

The young men thanked the woman and slowly made their way up the narrow, rickety staircase which creaked and groaned with each step. When the reached the top, a strong earthy odor crowded their noses as they both eased into the cluttered attic space.

Dried herbs and flowers hung from the eaves in every direction. Glass bottles, all empty and different colors, littered the shelves and floors. A large window faced the west end and the sun was beating through it, giving all the old artifacts, some displayed in glass, others hanging in midair, an ethereal quality. Sherlock hovered over the pictures of flesh-eating maggots, making a mental note to study the tiny tubers a little more closely with his microscope. He also found himself rather taken by the collection of skulls that lined one side of the wall.

“Interesting,” said John, his eyes wandering the room. “I’ve read about apothecaries in garrets. Medicinal herbs stored in places like this to keep the rats and the mildew out.” He stopped to inspect a large pile of petals in a scale, then stopped to read some of the literature left on the table. “It says here they found poppy pods in the rafters years after it was abandoned. They assume it was an medicinal storage unit of some sort, but they can’t be 100% sure.”

“Oh, it was an herb garret all right,” said Sherlock, waving John into the next room. “Look.”

The next section of the garret opened up into a wide space, as pristine and sterile as the apothecary had been cluttered and unclean. The layout resembled a Greek style theater, with benches forming a half circle looking over a small, round center, where a simple wooden slab around six feet long sat perched in the middle.

Sherlock watched John gravitate toward the old wooden table, a look of appreciation mixed with apprehension on his face.

"An operating table," he said amazed. "This was back when doctors would operate on people without anesthetic. Would cut people's limbs off as a last hope of saving them."

Sherlock walked over and ran his hand carefully along the table. "A skilled surgeon could slice an arm off at the shoulder in seventeen seconds,” he said.

"Really," said John, eyes glistening with excitement.

"Mm," answered Sherlock. "And then they would seal the stump with tar or boiling oil." He stuffed his hands in his trousers, his lithe frame bending and stretching as he took in the surrounding operating theater. "Most still perished. All that pain, for nothing."

"Being a surgeon," said John, shaking his head. "A fancy name for a butcher."

"Indeed." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Does it put you off?”

“Not in the slightest,” John answered immediately. He locked eyes with Sherlock. “Does that put you off?”

“On the contrary,” said Sherlock boldly. “I find it rather refreshing.”

Sherlock saw John’s eyes darken at the compliment.

“Good,” said John. He subtly licked his lips.

They read up on what little surgical records had survived, and inspected the medical “tools” of the day (a saw, a vice, several metal pins and a giant warped bucket were among the most disturbing). When they’d exhausted the room of every last detail, they headed back through the herb garret and trekked down the rickety stairs.

Halfway down, John stopped mid step. He gathered a fistful of Sherlock’s coat lapel and gently pressed him up against the wall. Sherlock felt warm breath on his face as a stubbled jaw grazed his neck.

“Brilliant Plan B,” whispered John, his chapped lips grazing Sherlock’s smooth ones.

John kissed him again, and Sherlock found that most of his blood had flowed into his cock, an unfamiliar, almost painful ache throbbing in his trousers. He finally parted his lips, and John devoured him, trapping him between the flimsy wall and his solid chest. A moan escaped his throat, but it was muffled by John’s tongue as they wrapped their arms around each other at the same time.

A shuffle and loud creak below them broke the moment. The released each other, both panting, John’s fist still wrapped in Sherlock’s coat.

“Are you boys alright?” said an old, shaky voice.

John and Sherlock looked at each other and tried very hard not to laugh.

“We’re fine!” yelled John. “We just lost a, uh, an earring and we’re looking for it.”

Sherlock mouthed “an earring?” as John mouthed “shut up”.

They both composed and adjusted themselves to greet the ancient hostess, who looked at them suspiciously as they left the museum.

“Cheers. For saving the day,” said John. “That was amazing.” He hesitated, then said, “All of it.”

Sherlock’s ears felt hot in the cold wind. “Yes, cheers,” he answered shyly. He self-consciously looked up and down the street, deriving his bearings. “Any chance you’re hungry?”

"Famished."

"There’s excellent Chinese around the corner.”

“Alright,” said John appreciatively.

They both had lo mein and egg rolls, and Sherlock drank green tea while John had another tap water. John happily paid for the meal, since it was again a bargain at 10 quid for the both of them (Sherlock had purposefully encouraged the cheap noodles and rolls). They had planned an after dinner stroll across the bridge, but the weather had turned damp and drizzly.

"Want to see the London's tiniest dorm room?" said Sherlock, albeit a bit timidly. .

John smiled. Sherlock noticed a faint flush fill the young man’s face. "Yeah, love to."

 

A tube and bus ride later, John and Sherlock happily entered the warm dormitory. Sherlock tried not to be embarrassed as he passed his classmates, none of who greeted him or even tried to make eye contact.

Sherlock opened the door to the Sliver, and as soon as the two stepped inside, John's shins hit the frame of the twin bed.

"Wow, you weren't kidding."

Sherlock squeezed by John, his thighs brushing against the young doctor's backside. He sat on the bed with his back against the wall and tried to appear relaxed, though his heart was beating in his ears.

John caught a glimpse of a human skull on the shelf and did a double take.

"Friend of yours?" quipped John.

"Quite," answered Sherlock, teasing. "Tends to be my only source of stimulating conversation, until recently.”

“What is it that they say, that conversation is overrated?” John said as he fell to his knees on the bed and crawled to face Sherlock.

“They are usually correct,” replied Sherlock. “I spend most of my time playing music instead of conversing.”

“Where do you practice? I can't imagine there's room in here."

"The main hall," said Sherlock. "I can show you. It's actually quite beautiful.”

"Already inviting me on a second date?" said John.

"Of sorts."

"Maybe we can do that after."

"After what?"

John leaned in so closely his eyelashes fluttered against Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone.

"Right, after..." Sherlock said softly.

Sherlock heard himself whimper as John kissed him, his partner delicately parting his lips with a gentle tongue. He reveled in the sensation of John’s hand slipping up his back and gently rubbing his neck, then fingering his dark curls. Sherlock sighed and squirmed in the young man’s arms, kissing him back and holding on to him tightly.

They kissed and touched and explored each other’s lips until John decidedly gripped Sherlock by his narrow waist and laid him back on the bed. He crawled on top of him, his body weight pressing his firm, substantial arousal into the dip of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock gasped at the pressure, running his arms down John's back and settling his two large hands on two thick and muscled arsecheeks. John’s lips ghosted along Sherlock’s long neck and rested on a sharp collarbone, suckling on alabaster-colored flesh.

Sherlock held John close, digging his long fingers into his behind. He felt John’s teeth tug gently on his ear while a strong, warm hand slid under his untucked shirt, caressing the small hairs on his lithe chest and stopping to massage a solid, erect nipple with a teasing thumb.

Sherlock groaned obscenely as the pressure built inside him. He pulled John even tighter against him, and it was then he lost control. He was suddenly gone - a momentary loss of his surroundings, a white light, bucking and writhing under his partner’s weight, gripping the young medical student’s ass so roughly the tips of his fingers left dents in the fabric of his jeans. When he finally fell back to reality, and realized what had happened, the dampness in his pants, his erratic breathing - he was mortified.

"Sherlock?" whispered John.

Sherlock felt sweaty curls being pushed away from his face. His kept his eyes squeezed shut, but he couldn’t stop his lungs from forcing his swollen  
lips open, gasping for air.

John shifted his weight off of Sherlock, giving him room to move.

"Did you just-"

Sherlock felt the heat of embarrassment creep heavily into him. He began to draw himself up, his hand reaching to cover his trousers.

"Oh God, Sherlock," whispered John, his breath quickening. "What are you doing to me!"

Sherlock opened his eyes just as John palmed his own swollen cock through his jeans. He unzipped his fly and unabashedly shoved his hand inside his pants, stroking his erection.

John’s sudden enthusiasm caused him to lose his balance, but Sherlock saved him before he rolled off the bed. He held John closely after that, mesmerized as his partner forced the tight jeans further down his hips, his fist fighting against his pants as the head of his red, glistening prick peeked out of the top. John's hand eagerly moved under the fabric while Sherlock shyly reached out and touched him. The shorter man’s chest heaved, his head thrown back in pleasure. On impulse, Sherlock leaned up and placed his plump lips around the head of John’s cock, his tongue gently lapping up the wet drops that had formed along the tip.

John gasped loudly at the contact, pushing him over the edge as his hips worked his thick cock through his fist over and over again in short, hard thrusts. Sherlock eagerly watched his release, coming in spurts and running along his abdomen, soaking into his pants and staining Sherlock’s expensive sheets.

Sherlock stared at John in disbelief while John blinked back at Sherlock with kind, satiated eyes. John was still a bit out of breath when he finally spoke:

"I guess we both came in our pants."

Sherlock smiled so suddenly and widely that his lip caught on his teeth, making his grin lopsided for a few moments. He felt his chest swell.

"Now," John said matter of factly, leaning in to give Sherlock a long kiss on the lips. "Show me around your fancy music school, yeah?"

***

The main hall was creepy at night, even with the lights shining on the marble floors and gilded hallways. Sherlock figured it was the silence that made it so unbearable. The presence of students gave the building warmth. Without them, it felt cold and lifeless.

It was very late, so Sherlock expected the fourth floor to be deserted. The automatic lights flickered on as they entered through the glass doors. Sherlock showed John the practice rooms and the view of the gardens, the room he normally practiced in near the back door, then walked him to the opposite end of the floor to the group practice rooms.

“It’s quite breathtaking. Glass walls, modern finishes” said Sherlock. “I play there on Monday evenings with a group from the higher level orchestra.”

They both turned the corner, surprised to see a dim light shining from inside the glass. Clearly visible through the translucent walls were two males in the middle of the room. He heard John draw in a quick breath as one of the men, wearing a sweat soaked t-shirt, moved to the side to reveal the other, naked, kneeling back to front in an armless chair. Sherlock felt himself break into a cold sweat as he recognized them both.

He dared to glance over at John, who was staring back at him in confusion and shock. They both turned back to the scene just in time to see clothed man pull out what looked like a long, rounded stick. He struck the young man’s naked back, not once, not twice, but three times in a row.

Then the man threw the stick to the side and pulled out a thick, glass rod and held it as if to penetrate his partner's well-exposed arse.

“I think we should leave,” whispered John.

“Right behind you,” answered Sherlock, as they both quickly turned around to head back to the door. In his haste, however, Sherlock bumped the bookshelf, and several books clattered to the floor.

John and Sherlock exchanged momentary looks, then both shot off like cannons toward the front door.

They were back to the stairs in no time. Sherlock started down the stairs, but John grabbed him and swung him around into a dark corner of the hallway. He placed a small, tanned hand firmly over Sherlock’s mouth, and put a finger up to his own lips.

A few seconds later, Professor Brook, sweaty and perturbed, emerged from the glass doors and stopped. He looked around, his dark eyes seemingly able to penetrate all the shadows.

It felt like ages before he continued down the stairs, his steps echoing throughout the building. When John was finally convinced he was gone, he released Sherlock from his grip.

“That,” he panted, “was insane.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes.”

“This place is mad!” whispered John, shaking his head and pushing Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock pushed back, then pulled John to him, kissing him deeply. He could smell the sweat, the chinese food, the cheap bar soap on John’s body. It was intoxicating.

He pinned John back against the cool, smooth wall, and in his deepest, rumbling baritone said:

"I want you in my mouth, in my throat."

Sherlock held John upright as the soon-to-be doctor suddenly went weak in the knees. He stared at Sherlock, mouth open.

Sherlock gave him his best, seductive smile. "What are you waiting for?"

"I have no idea," John admitted, undoing his fly, his large prick bouncing out of his pants already half-hard. Sherlock grabbed John's arse roughly, dropped to his knees and followed his wavering, thick cock with his mouth. His ample lips parted as his red, slick tongue licked a line up the length of the long, thick shaft. He carefully took John into his mouth.

John tasted like sex. It made Sherlock almost dizzy with desire, remembering how John had come nearly on top of him earlier. He felt his own cock swell against his tight trousers.

John grunted and lightly gripped Sherlock's jaw with his blunt fingers. Sherlock pulled off with a pop and looked up.

“Don’t be afraid, John,” he rumbled. “I like it rough.”

John exhaled anxiously and stepped closer to Sherlock's body, holding his cock with one hand and the back of Sherlock’s curls with the other. He guided his cock back into Sherlock's hot, open mouth.

Sherlock, disappointed with John’s gentle technique, dug his fingernails roughly into his strong, thick hips. John bucked in pain and consequently shoved his cock hard and deep down Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock felt the cock fill him up. He fought against his reflexes, tried his best to open wide and relax, but he failed and choked. John let up, air filling Sherlock's lungs as he gasped.

"Shit, shit, sorry!" whispered John, visibly upset. Sherlock quickly took John's hand, placed it again on the back of his head, and lifted the solid cock back up to his mouth.

"Don't be stupid, John."

Again, Sherlock swallowed John's cock, and once again, Sherlock gagged. John quickly pulled out as Sherlock gasped for air. Tears streamed down Sherlock's cheeks as he wiped saliva from his chin. He gazed up at John feeling powerful and sexy, relishing the pressure of his own prick now thick and heavy and pressed against his fly.

"Oh Jesus," groaned John in amazement. "Why are you doing this? You don’t have to do this."

"John?" said Sherlock, between coughs.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

This time Sherlock got it right. He swallowed and relaxed his throat, and John, now a less hesitant recipient, allowed for about 90 seconds of incredible, thrilling deep-throat fucking for both young men. Sherlock swallowed, licked, sucked and reveled in the abuse as John became rougher and stricter with his movements, until Sherlock's nose was buried so deep in his partner’s pubic hair that he couldn’t even breath. It pushed John over the edge and he came, deep inside Sherlock’s throat. Afterward, he collapsed without any grace onto the floor. Sherlock finished silently on his own just seconds after, and laid down next to John.

"Where in the world did you learn to do that?" asked John, still out of breath.

Sherlock wiped his mouth gingerly. "I've been in a relationship before," he said defensively.

"So have I," said John. "But that was like something out of a porno."

Sherlock paused. Was that good or bad? "I thought you'd like it,” he said honestly.

John laughed, making Sherlock’s stomach twist into knots.

"I liked it. But it's not something -” said John, but he suddenly stopped and reached for Sherlock, his eyes and voice softening. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by that. I was just surprised is all." John pulled him close. "I'm sorry. Thank you. It was amazing," he said, looking down into Sherlock's eyes. "You're amazing."

Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck as he felt warm lips pressed tenderly against his temple. Sherlock was beginning to understand that John wasn't anything at all like his former lover; the one who had taught him all those tricks with his mouth and throat, all those sessions of getting it just right, over and over again. The only release Sherlock had ever received was by his own hand. Sebastian Wilkes had never touched him in tenderness, never kissed his forehead, never stroked his chest. John had done all three in the last few hours, on their first date no less. Sherlock was trying to respond in kind, to give what he thought John needed. He'd resorted to the only way he knew how to be sexually intimate with another person, and he realized it wasn’t normal. Shame and embarrassment momentarily overwhelmed him.

"Next time, let me take care of you, yeah?" whispered John, his breath hot in Sherlock's ear. He slid a palm over the young musicians thigh, and squeezed gently.

Sherlock managed a small smile, and stroked John’s cheek with his palm. He covered his lover's mouth with his own.

Next time, he thought warmly. John Watson said next time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is promoted to concert band. John and Sherlock do some more exploring.

Wednesday afternoon in the windowless, stuffy Beginner band practice room was slowly dissolving into mayhem.

The weather had been bloody awful for a week, with temperatures just above freezing and the clouds bringing nothing but rain and sleet. Everyone was on edge with a raging case of cabin fever, including the director, who was within a breath of tearing his hair out.

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he said, smacking his baton against the music stand. He stomped his foot on the podium. “Back to the beginning, please.”

Instruments at ready, the orchestra was silent, awaiting the baton to strike and to begin again.

Instead, the door to the classroom swung open wide and hard, hitting the opposite wall and making a loud SMACK against the wall. Several jerked in their seats at the noise. The director quickly retreated to a corner of the room as Professor Brook, baton in hand, made his way into the classroom.

Brook cleared his throat and stepped heavily onto the podium. He observed the orchestra, looking thoroughly bored.

He raised his baton.

Automatically, the orchestra brought their instruments at ready.

“Trumpets only” commanded Brook. “Down the line. Bars 36 to 38. One-two--”

Everyone dropped their instruments except for the first chair trumpet, who played as instructed. A few notes in, Brooks stopped him with the slightest flick of his hand.

Brooks moved on to the 2nd trumpet player. “Next. One-two--” he said.

The 2nd trumpet player missed the cue.

“Are you serious?” Brooks said, looking at the director, exasperated.

“Trombones Bars 21 to 21. Four-and -”

The maestro made his way down the rows and through the multiple sections of instruments until he came to the front row. He instructed Anderson to play. 

Anderson took a breath as Brooks clapped him off.

“Thank you. You. Next.”

Palms sweaty, Sherlock brought his violin up to his chin, and played for less than five seconds before Brook cut him off.

“Thank you. Bass. Five bars from 59.” 

And so it went, on and on, until the final player had been tested and either praised or humiliated. Brook stepped down from the podium and with a single look handed control of the class back to the director.

The director waited patiently at his side, familiar with the routine.

“You, violin. Come here,” Brook commanded.

Anderson smiled so big Sherlock thought his cheeks would pop. He shot out of his chair and was at the professor's side within seconds.

Brook raised his eyebrows and giggled as the young man approached. 

“No, other violin,” he barked impatiently.

Anderson’s expression went from elation, to confusion, to embarrassment. Brook shook his head and continued to giggle as Anderson, shoulder's slumped, made his way back to his seat.

Sherlock rose from his chair and approached the maestro. Brook immediately stopped giggling.

“Congratulations,” he cood softly. “You have your chance to play with the big boys. Be in room 141 tomorrow, 8am sharp.”

Sherlock nodded once, his head bowed in respect, reluctant to make eye contact.

Brook turned and glided out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock quickly returned to his seat as everyone began to whisper. The director stepped back onto the podium and rapped the baton against the music stand. 

“That’s enough, ladies and gentlemen. Sherlock, congratulations. Everyone else, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Measure 78, on the downbeat, ready and a one, two…”

*****

Sherlock planned to explore the secret tunnel he'd discovered the moment John rung him for a second date.

He convinced John to come all the way to Cromwell by sending a car to pick him up. Mycroft had a car service on retainer to encourage Sherlock to visit their father while away at school: so far Sherlock had never used it. Using it to chauffeur John Watson across town so he could help him explore a secret passage was at least putting Mycroft's money to good use. 

John arrived around 10pm, just as Cromwell’s final class let out. They sat and watched the campus slowly empty as John sipped a soda and munched on some crisps and Sherlock chain-smoked his cigarettes. Sherlock discreetly watched the young medical student check the secured flap of his old rucksack a dozen times as they waited.

Once the courtyard was deserted, the two young men quietly wove through the overgrown bushes, John watching Sherlock’s back as the young man pushed the thick ivy vines aside, exposing the door. A subtle nod from John and Sherlock pulled the lever, the heavy door opening with a groan.

“What the -” whispered John, shining his torch inside the darkness, revealing the ancient spiraling staircase.

Sherlock stepped inside first, the thin beam of light from his torch the only thing keeping the darkness from completely enveloping him.

“Careful, Sherlock,” said John, following him. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Sherlock peered down the spiraling staircase. He couldn’t make out where it ended. “John, close the door.”

“Nope,” he answered, accidentally flashing the torch’s light directly in Sherlock’s eyes. “I closed it halfway and propped it open with a rock. That’s as closed as it’s gonna get.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and continued down the staircase.

It only took about 30 seconds to reach the bottom, which ended in a dirty passage that led further underneath the main hall. It was surprisingly warm, and smelled strongly of mildew and damp stones.

The passageway was fairly straight, but narrow enough one had to follow the other. John brought up the rear, glancing back often to make sure they weren’t being followed.

It wasn’t five minutes before the hallway abruptly ended, a solid, brick wall built right into the walls.

“Well, that was a bit anticlimactic,” remarked John, shining his torch up the length of the brick. “This isn’t that old. Probably sealed up for insurance reasons.”

Sherlock wasn’t listening, and instead was inspecting the stone along one of the walls. He removed his gloves and felt with his palm along the damp rocks, concentrating deeply.

“What are you doing?”asked John, confused. “Shouldn’t we go back?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him, but kept looking along the wall. He heard John sigh behind him.

“It’s here somewhere,” he mumbled.

“What’s here?”said John, impatience clear in his voice. “Sherlock…”.

Just then, Sherlock’s fingers ambled passed a piece of loose stone and pushed into an invisible hole in the wall.

“Ahh!” he remarked, turning his wrist. With a snap and a crackle and an incredibly loud grinding of metal, the brick wall popped out of place and swung to the side.

John stared, dumbfounded.

“Am I on Punk’d?” he said seriously.

“What’s that?” grunted Sherlock, as he pushed open the brick door with his shoulder.

“Never mind,” he replied, following behind.

The hallway widened the farther they walked, and a sharp turn dropped them into a wide, open room with a twenty foot ceiling. Two carved archways led to two additional passages, one directly ahead of them, and one that veered off to the right.

“This is brilliant,” whispered Sherlock, his senses cataloging every detail. He barreled down the hallway to his right.

“Sherlock, wait…” he heard John say. He paid no mind as he illuminated the path in front of him, a torch in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Oh my God,” he heard John exclaim behind him. He turned to see John, his back up against the passageway, shining a light on an indentation in the wall.

Upon closer inspection, three old, dusty coffins, unopened, sat perched on carved shelves.

“This place,” said John, panting. “This place is a catacomb.” It was painfully obvious that John was patiently talking himself out of any other possible, more morbid theories.

Sherlock inspected the largest coffin, and touched the lid. It slid open easily. He shined his torch’s light inside, just as a strange sound made both young men momentarily stop breathing.

It was footsteps. Running. Coming from the unexplored area of the dark passageway.

And they were getting louder.

“Let’s get out of here,” said John, pulling on Sherlock’s jacket.

“Right behind you,” said Sherlock, turning and following John back toward the cavern.

John sprinted across the cavern and back into the narrow hallway from whence they came. Sherlock watched John disappear around the sharp corner, but instead of following him, Sherlock turned and ran back into the middle of the cavern, shining his torch directly at tunnel's opening.

He then thought better of it, and positioned the torch on the ground and stood, arms up, ready to fight, awaiting to confront the mysterious stranger chasing them.

But the stranger never emerged. In fact, the tunnel was now eerily silent.

John, out of breath, emerged from the original passage. “Sherlock, what the hell…” He stopped and looked around, amazed no one was there. “Where’d he go?” he asked earnestly. His cheeks were bright red, his chest heaving.

John had come back for him. Sherlock felt his cock twitch in his trousers.

“I think we’re dealing with a ghost,” he said.

“A ghost was chasing us,” said John skeptically.

“In a sense,” replied Sherlock. He gave John a thousand watt smile, and entered the passage again.

“Wait!” yelled John after him. “Where are you going?”

“Come on, John. The game’s afoot!”

“Hold your bloody horses!” John commanded. Sherlock stopped and turned around just in time to see John pull something metal out of his rucksack and tuck it into the back of his jeans. He pulled down his jumper. “Okay, ready,” he said, leading the way.

They marched for several minutes, with no sound of footsteps. John's torch was starting to dim.

"Sherlock, I think we should turn around. My torch's battery is going flat."

Suddenly a pale glow ahead of them made them both curious. As they approached, light poured from a grate in the passage’s ceiling. All the more curious, the passage abruptly ended a few meters just ahead.

In an impressing show of strength, John jumped up and grabbed the prongs, pulling himself up to peer into the room above.

“It looks like an office,” he whispered. “It’s empty.” John dropped to his feet, then knelt down. “Here, I’ll give you a boost,” he said, his hands clasped together.

Sherlock inwardly swooned at John’s immediate wish to commit the crime of breaking and entering.

The grate easily opened, and with John’s help Sherlock pulled himself up and into the office.

The room was empty and dark, except for the moonlight pouring through the windows, and a large display of batons backlit along a wall.

Sherlock was on his feet in a flash. He tried the opening the desk drawers, but they were locked. No paperwork littered the desk. Nothing was in the rubbish bin. Sherlock dropped back down into the passageway within minutes, careful to pull the grate back in place behind him.

“Find anything?” asked John. Sherlock nodded, padding his pockets and sighing. “What?”

“My phone,” groaned Sherlock. “I must have left it back at the cavern.”

Just then, the light from John’s torch wavered and went out completely. The corridor was suddenly pitch black, save the glow from the grate above.

"Shit," cursed John. "Sherlock, where's your torch?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

John sighed. "Sherlock -"

"I left it too. In the cavern."

"Shit.”

They both stood silently for a moment, until Sherlock felt the reassuring squeeze of John’s palm on his shoulder.

“We could go through the office.”

Sherlock shook his head. “We’ll get caught.”

“All right. Let's just go back the way we came," said John calmly, taking charge. "We didn't walk all that far. Give me your hand."

Sherlock felt the warmth of John’s palm surround his own as they turned around and carefully began the journey back to the entrance. John kept his other hand along the wall, leading the way.

After a few minutes, the young medical student accidentally lost his footing, and Sherlock felt him drop. He held fast to his wrist and kept him suspended above the cold hard path.

"Alright?"

"Yeah," answered John, sounding annoyed. "Just step carefully."

John continued, slower than before. Sherlock gripped him firmly for support and leverage as they walked, their footsteps echoing against the walls. It was eerily silent otherwise.

Sherlock chose to break the silence by blurting out -

"Why did you say my attempt at fellatio was like ‘something out of a porno’?"

John stopped, and Sherlock collided with his backside.

“What?” replied John. “What are you talking about?”

“On our date,” said Sherlock. “You implied my fellatio technique was an act of depravity, lewd. Like ‘something out of a porno’.

"I didn’t mean it like that,” said John, scrambling for the right words. “I’ve just never had anyone do that like that before. It was rather intense."

"But did you liked it?"

"I did,” John said defensively. “But I think I was a little worried about with whether you liked it."

Sherlock was confused. Why did it matter if he liked it?

John sped up a bit as the path leveled out. It was obvious he was not in the mood for this type of conversation. "If it's your thing, then that's great. But if it's not..."

"Why would it not be?" asked Sherlock. He was completely confused. What was John getting at?

"I don't know," answered John. "I mean, you've had past relationships. Everyone's different and likes different things. To each their own."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. "You're placating me," he said. "I expect more from you, John."

He heard John turn towards him as they released each other’s hands.

"Fine," he said evenly. "It seems like you were just trying to impress me."

Before Sherlock could respond, John again grabbed him and continued through the dark corridor. It was a good long while before Sherlock responded.

"You're right," admitted Sherlock softly. "I was trying to impress you." He squeezed John’s hand. “And I’ve only been in one relationship. If you can even call it that,” he admitted.

"Did he teach you that...technique?" John said, carefully.

Sherlock thought about lying. Instead, he said: "Yes."

"What else did he teach you?"

Sherlock hadn't been prepared for that question. He could only tell the truth. "Nothing else. That's all he wanted."

John let the comment hang in the air between them. He squeezed Sherlock's hand before he spoke.

"And do you think that's all I want?"

There was a pause. "I’m not sure."

John stopped. Sherlock could hear him turning around. A strong hand was suddenly on his waist, warm breath on his neck.

"I want you," he said softly. "You're brilliant. Fantastic. Just be with me. Please."

Sherlock exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. His fingertips felt gently for John’s lips in the dark as he leaned down and kissed him, whispering “yes” as he melted into his embrace.

“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” said John, breaking the kiss and again grabbing Sherlock’s hand. They made their way along the corridor in silence until the warm glow from Sherlock’s lit torch signaled that they had finally reached the open cavern.

Sherlock picked up the torch and followed John into the original passage when he froze. He cocked his head, listening.

“Oh no, not again,” said John, grabbing onto Sherlock's coat sleeve and tugging sharply.

Sherlock held his finger to his lips, looking straight at John. John stopped and listened in spite of his frustration. His eyes grew wide as he nodded his head; he'd heard it too.

There it was again. Deep in the second, unexplored hallway, the sound of a machine, something chugging, clanging, and voices.

Sherlock started towards the noise, but John held onto his coat.

"Sherlock, don't," he said. "We don't have the equipment, and there's no telling how far down that tunnel goes."

Sherlock looked longingly at the hall, then back at John.

"Let's regroup, yeah?" said John sensibly. "Something about all of this…” His eyes pleaded, his face serious. “We need a plan."

Sherlock stole one more glance at the corridor, then reluctantly let John pull him back into the passageway.

 

*****

 

When they finally emerged through the hidden door and back out into the crisp, night air, John collapsed against the old monastery and took a generous swig from a canteen hidden in his rucksack. He offered it to Sherlock, who obliged.

"Something not good is definitely going on down there," said John.

Sherlock paced the grass in front his partner. "He’s in that corridor," he muttered.

"Who?" asked John. "What are you not telling me?"

Sherlock turned to him to say something, then stopped. "It’s nothing," he said.

John didn’t look convinced. "If you're not going to tell me what's really going on, at least promise you won't go down there alone."

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John, placing a kiss on his chapped lips. "Promise," he grumbled.

“Good,” replied John. His fingers threaded into Sherlock’s curls, and he smiled that John Watson smile that turned Sherlock into mush. “I don’t want you running off without me again.”

John pulled Sherlock into his lap, long legs straddling his thighs, and kissed him. Sherlock melted into him, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist.

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he said, removing the Browning tucked behind John's back.

“I thought it might come in handy.”

"Your father’s?”

John nodded. “He gave it to me right before he died."

Sherlock inspected the weapon, appreciating the look and weight of it. “And I trust you know how to use it?” said Sherlock with a sly smile. He pressed it into John’s open palm.

“Better than most,” replied John, tucking it into his rucksack. He pulled Sherlock close, and in response long fingers rubbed through his jeans.

“What did I tell you?” breathed John, removing Sherlock's hand. “Next time, I take care of you, yeah?”

John pushed Sherlock to the ground and made quick work of opening his coat and unbuttoning his posh shirt. Sherlock caught a glimpse of his own pale skin glowing in the moonlight as he let John methodically kiss every inch of his naked chest.

John unzipped Sherlock’s black, skinny trousers and pulled down the designer pants just enough to expose his swelling cock. Sherlock’s fingers again slipped to the bulge growing in John’s pants, but a strong, capable hand grabbed his slender wrist and held fast.

“What did I say?” he growled, pushing both of Sherlock's arms above his curly head and pinning his wrists firmly into the grass.

Sherlock gasped and squirmed against John’s still fully clothed frame, his naked, narrow thighs pressing into the well worn fabric of his clothing, his bare chest caressed by a soft, fuzzy jumper. Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation as he watched John undo his jeans with his free hand and push his pants down to release his huge erection. His other hand squeezed Sherlock’s wrists together even tighter.

“God you’re gorgeous,” John whispered hotly in his ear. His free hand disappeared into his crumpled jean pocket to retrieve a tube of chapstick. Sherlock heard it squirt, then felt it being smeared all over his cock by John's steady palm.

“Oh God,” gasped Sherlock, as he struggled to see John's hand expertly working his prick. He dared not move much for fear he'd come too quickly. He wanted this to last as long as possible.

Loud voices and giggling disturbed the quiet as a group of students passed on the other side of the bushes, unaware of the two young men on the ground behind them. Startled, Sherlock began to get up, but John pushed him back down to the ground, albeit a bit too roughly. He pushed his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth, kissing him passionately, then released the slender cock in favor of massaging an erect, pink nipple.

He squeezed the nipple _hard_.

Sherlock cried out, the sound muffled by John’s tongue plundering his mouth. His calloused fingers finally found their way back to Sherlock's poor cock, which was now a deep red and leaking all over his abdomen.

The voices grew distant as the students kept walking. John released Sherlock's lips, both young men left gasping.

John whispered again into his ear: “Have you ever fucked anyone?”

Sherlock whimpered, and shook his head no.

“Pretend you’re fucking me,” he said softly. "How you’d want to, how you’d need to." He held his hand still as Sherlock hesitated and then slowly lifted his hips and thrusted his throbbing cock into John’s open fist.

Sherlock sobbed as John squeezed his erection and at the same time tightened the grip on his wrists. Sherlock lifted his hips again, and again, and again. He helplessly whined into John's neck. It was exquisite torture.

“That’s it, that’s how you’d work those gorgeous hips,” John whispered, releasing his wrists, bringing one to his lips and kissing it tenderly.

Sherlock eagerly rolled over to face John, grabbing his jumper and pulling him close, his ample lips grazing a stubbled jaw and sucking on the tender spot just below his lover’s ear. John groaned in response, taking Sherlock's hand and rubbing it first on his own thick, ample cock, then placing it on Sherlock’s long, slender one.

“Now show me,” he whispered. “How you like to touch yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked with John’s, apprehensive, curious, full of want and the need for approval. He obeyed, gripping himself carefully and moving his fist slowly up and down, stroking down into his testicles and back up again, then lightly squeezing and twisting.

John watched intently and reached around Sherlock’s exposed thigh, his fingers gently wandering into the cleft of his arse.

Sherlock jerked, bumping John’s hand out of the intimate place.

“Sorry,” he whispered, embarrassed.

“Too much?” John said.

“Just...foreign,” he confessed.

He leaned in and pressed his prick against Sherlock's, gathering them both in his hand. “Alright?” he murmured. He thrusted his hips and Sherlock let out a surprised “Oh!” as John rubbed his thick member in rhythm against his partners long, solid cock.

“Oh my God,” breathed Sherlock, watching John as he fucked them both with his hand. “Oh!" His head fell back and exposed his neck.

John placed Sherlock's hand on top of his, and together they stroked and thrusted and grinded in unison.

Sherlock bucked and shivered and whispered desperately. "I'm going to come, John, I-”

Sherlock spilled all over John’s hand, and suddenly the thrusts were slicker and warmer and _filthy_. John's breath stuttered as his body grew rigid, coming in spurts all over Sherlock's chest.

They both collapsed onto the grass, a mess of dirt, sweat and come. They lay there, silent, until Sherlock began to giggle.

John looked over at him, panting, and smiled. “Next time I’m fucking you. That’s all there is too it.”

He leaned forward, and with a handkerchief from his jean pocket, gently wiped Sherlock’s chest clean. He then pulled him back up to his feet, just like that day in the park. Both men buckled up their trousers, but John made Sherlock turn around so he could brush the bits of grass off his coat and out of his curls.

John turned around to grab his rucksack, but Sherlock caught his arm.

“John,” he began to say, but he couldn’t find the words. His feeling were jumbled, his mind was racing like a thoroughbred. He wanted John to know, well, what exactly did he want to tell John? He found himself speechless, a circumstance even he found ironic.

He finally smiled and said, “I’ll call the car.”

John smiled back at him as he threw his rucksack over his shoulder.

“Ta,” he replied, reaching forward and smoothing the young musician’s lapel with his fingers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces humiliation and violence during his first day of Concert band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****more physical violence. In fact, it just gets worse from here to the end of the story, so please be forewarned regarding triggers for both physical and sexual violence.****

Sherlock didn’t eat or sleep that night. By the time he made it back to his bed it was already 2am. He was so worked up from the discovery in the Cellar that he spend most of the night doing research on the Internet. (He was also trying not to think of John Watson’s lips and arse, but he indulged himself every few hours or so. It was difficult to function with a perpetual hard-on). 

That morning he reported for Concert Band as ordered, following the older students into the large, ornate classroom and carefully choosing his chair, the last in the row of violins. Wiggins walked in and upon noticing Sherlock gave him a salute and a grin. Sherlock nodded back, but continued to keep a low profile. The students filing in were older, confident, and less chatty than those in Beginner Band. It was all business, players tuning, warming up and organizing their music with little distraction.

Victor entered right ahead of Professor Brook. He spotted Sherlock and gave him a quick wink as he handed him a music folder, then returned to take his place as first chair. Brook stepped up onto the podium, and took a moment to gaze around at the orchestra, seemingly taking roll call in his head. His eyes finally met Sherlock's. The coal black irises danced in the flourescent lighting. 

He tapped his baton once against the music stand, and the whole room when silent. 

“We’ve got a squeaker today, people. Sherlock Holmes.” He drew out Sherlock’s last name like a purring cat. “Eighteen years old. Isn’t he cute?”

Several snickers echoed through the orchestra. Someone muttered, “I thought Sherlock was a girl’s name.”

Brook smiled, but then, his face contorted into a sneer as he shouted. “That’s enough!” He glared at the room. “Reichenbach Concerto, from the top.”

Sherlock shuffled through his music sheets to find the right composition as Brook raised his arm. 

For several seconds, one could hear a pin drop.

Then, with the slightest move of his index finger and baton, Brook engaged the orchestra.

The piece was as beautiful as Sherlock remembered, but it was quick, and impossibly hard. He kept up, but was hard pressed to do so.

After a few moments, Brook slammed his baton down on his music stand. 

“Stop. You. Barker,” he shouted. He pointed to a trumpeter’s horn. “That is not your boyfriend’s dick. Do not come early. Moving ahead. Bar 93.”

Everyone flipped their sheet music. Sherlock caught a glimpse of Wiggins ejecting spit from his horn, a puddle has by his feet.

“Five-six-seven--”

The orchestra played on, the intensity of the visceral piece growing exponentially as the tempo increased. Brook paced back and forth, eyeing the players like a hawk, his ears poised like a fox, every sinew of his compact body hyper-focused. 

Sherlock played on, one eye on his music, the other on Brook, awed by the maestro’s presence of mind.

“Stop!” Brook again commanded. “Now this one upsets me. We have an out-of tune player. Before I go any further, does that player want to do the right thing and reveal himself?

Sherlock didn’t dare move. The room stayed silent.

“Ok. Maybe a bug flew in my ear. Bar 115. Five-six-and--” He cued the orchestra with his hand, then seconds later, cut them off.

“No, I guess my ears are clean because we most definitely have an out-of-tune player. Whoever it is, this is your last chance.”

He paced the room like a jungle cat ready to pounce.

“Either you know you are out of tune, and are therefore deliberately sabotaging my band; or you do not know you’re out of tune - which I’m afraid is even worse.”

The terror in the room was palpable. Sherlock averted his eyes and looked directly ahead at his music stand.

“Reeds. Five-six-and - ” 

The clarinets, oboes and saxophones played and were cut off.

“Bones. Five-six-and - ”

Again, he cut them off. 

“Ahhhh, he’s here." 

He looked like an animal tracking his prey. He eyed the third trombonist, a young man, a bit overweight, with the disposition of being picked on his whole life. Brook seemed to smell the weakness rolling off of him. 

“Tell me it’s not you, Elmer Fudd.”

The young man trembled, blinking back tears. 

“It’s ok. Play.”

The young man played as the maestro hovered over him. Sherlock looked around the room and was shocked to find that everyone was afraid to watch. Only a few players dared to glance out the corner of his or her eye. 

“Do you think you’re out of tune?” Brook whispered in the young man’s ear. 

The trombonist, terrified, looked down at the floor.

“There’s no fucking Mars bar down there. Look at me. Do you think you’re out of tune?”

“Ye-yes” said the young man, his head bowed.

Brook erupted. “Then why the FUCK didn’t you say so?!”

Sherlock jerked his head up and narrowed his eyes. 

No one in the room reacted to the outburst. _This must be the norm. ___

“I’ve been carrying your fat ass for too long!” he boomed. “I will not let you cost us a competition because your mind’s on a fucking Happy Meal and not on pitch. Wallace, congratulations, you are now fourth-chair trombone. Garrett, get the fuck out.”

Garrett trembled violently as the tears bubbled out of his eyes. He stumbled out of his chair, picked up his trombone case, and practically ran out the door. 

Brook turned to the band. “For the record, Garrett was not out of tune. You were, Wallace. But Garrett didn’t know it. And that’s worse.”

He then looked straight at Sherlock, and said:

“Alright, take ten. When we get back --the squeaker’s on.”

Sherlock stomach flipped over involuntarily as he forced himself to meet Brook's stare.

Brook smiled coyly, and ever so slightly, pursed his lips in a kiss.

*************

Sherlock sat on the floor in the far corner of the hallway, purposefully out of sight. He held the Reichenbach Concerto sheet music in his hand, using his mind technique to methodically commit as much of it as possible to memory. 

Sherlock glanced up and spotted Wiggins heading straight towards him, a concerned look on his face. 

“Holmes,” he whispered. “Be prepared.”

“Prepared for what, William?”

Wiggins whipped around as Professor Brook approached the two young men. Sherlock scrambled to his feet. Brook placed a hand on the young musician’s neck. 

“I think I’ll take it from here, William.”

Wiggins nodded and swallowed. “Yes, Professor.” He turned and walked quickly back into the practice room. 

“Listen, Sherlock,” he said warmly, leading Sherlock slowly down the hallway. “I know what you saw in there is worrying you, but there’s a big difference. This is your first day.” he purred. He turned, the two men now face to face, his hands rubbing up and down Sherlock’s narrow shoulders. 

“Garrett had been dragging mud for two years.” Brook looked him up and down appreciatively. “Besides, you’re no Elmer Fudd. This is a huge opportunity for you. You know that, right?”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t dare speak. 

“Your parents musicians?”

“No.”

“What do they do?”

“My father’s a writer.”

“What’s he written?”

“Well he’s...I guess he’s mainly a teacher.”

“College?”

“Yes.”

“And your mom?”

“I don’t know. She died when I was a child.”

“So no musicians in the family.”

“...No, I guess not…”

“Well, you’ve just got to listen to the greats then. Fritz Kreisler, Perlman. You know, Toscani became “The Maestro” because Viotti threw a baton at his head.” Brook moved in closer, violating Sherlock’s space, his lips centimeters from Sherlock’s ear. “You see what I’m saying?”

Sherlock nodded again. 

“The key is -- relax, “ Brook cood. “Don’t worry about being perfect or what the other players think. You’re here for a reason. You believe that, don’t you? Say it.”

“I’m here for a reason,” Sherlock managed. 

Brook finally took a step back. 

“Good.” Brook slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Now have fun,” he said, walking away.

******

Sherlock was one of the last players to take his seat back inside the practice room. His heart was beating in his ears as he forced himself to concentrate on the sheet music in front of him. He glanced up to see Victor staring back at him. He gave an encouraging nod and a small smile. Sherlock turned around to Wiggins, who looked back at him like he was about to face a firing squad. 

“Alright, everyone. Reichenbach, from the top,” said Brook, looking directly at Sherlock. “Sherlock -- just do your best.”

The maestro counted off. The orchestra played the intro, and Sherlock came in, on cue, and nailed the first half of the solo. Brook smiled and Sherlock began to relax. The whole orchestra flowed together well as Sherlock’s solo increased in intensity. Brook sped up the tempo, and Sherlock kept pace, the cool wail of his violin penetrating the moments of silence as the orchestra backed him up.

“Snap! We’ve got Perlman here,” he shouted.

Sherlock fell into a deeper rhythm with the players. His body pulsed with the reeds, vibrated with the brass. He was truly leading the band. He was the concertmaster.

It was then that Brook suddenly waved the baton, the players uncharacteristically slow to stop playing, since everything had sounded rather perfect.

“Ok, little trouble there,” he said. Sherlock looked back at him, confused. Brook licked his lips. “No problem. Let’s pick it up from 17.”

The orchestra came in as Sherlock’s solo began, but Brook again cut them off. 

“Not my tempo. Again? Sherlock only.”

Sherlock again hit his mark perfectly, but Brook cut him off with a flick of his wrist. 

“You’re rushing a little. And a one...”

Sherlock adjusted himself in his seat, and quickly stretched his arm out to relieve a kink. He felt flustered, anxious, and was growing very frustrated.

“All set?”

Sherlock nodded. Brooks clapped, when out of nerves, Sherlock accidentally struck the strings early.

“No -- ready?” The maestro stepped off the podium, clapping wildly.

Brook hovered over Sherlock, stopping and starting, insisting the tempo was compromised over and over again. He sauntered back up to the front of the room and placed his hand on a spare wooden chair. 

With a grunt, he picked up the chair and slung it with all his strength directly at Sherlock's head.

A few screams pierced the air as Sherlock ducked just in time, the chair smashing against the wall behind him. His own seat slipped out from under him as he fell hard onto the floor, his bow flying out of his hand and landing somewhere in the reed section.

The room became completely silent. Sherlock felt shaken and disoriented. It took him a full twenty seconds before he was able to pull himself off of the floor and back into his chair. Someone from the band took pity on him and handed him back his bow.

Brook, as though discussing the weather, addressed him casually. “Why do you suppose I just hurled a chair at your head, Sherlock?”

“I d--don't know,” Sherlock stammered. 

“Yes, you do.”

“The tempo…”

“Were you rushing or were you dragging?”

“I wasn't --”

Brook bounded up to him in a beastlike manner, his veins set to burst. 

“Start. Counting," he growled.

“One-two-three-four…”

Out of nowhere, Brooks slapped Sherlock across the cheek. 

“Keep counting,” he whispered. 

Sherlock counted, and every second beat, he took another slap across the face.

“Now, was I rushing or I was dragging?” 

“I don’t know - ” said Sherlock. 

Brook smiled sadistically. “Start counting again.”

“One-two-(a slap on his left cheek) -three-four-o- (another slap) -ne-two-three-”

“Was I rushing or was I dragging?” Brook shouted. 

“Rushing…” he answered, his face burning so much he could barely concentrate. 

Brook growled in Sherlock’s face. “So you do know the difference! If you dare to sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig.”

The room was quiet except for Sherlock’s ragged breathing. He felt one of the tears he’d been desperately trying to hold back slide down one of his stinging cheeks. 

“Now are you a rusher, are you a dragger, or are you going to be ON MY FUCKING TIME?!” Brooks screamed, saliva dripping down his chin. 

“I’m going to be on your time.”

“Dear God, are you crying? 

Sherlock, mortified, quickly wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“You must be upset. Are you upset??”

“No…”

“Oh so you don’t give a fuck about any of this?”

“No, I do -”

“So are you upset? Yes or fucking no.”

Sherlock swallowed, and managed to speak. “Yes…”

“You are upset…”

“I am upset…”

“Say it so the rest of the band can hear you.”

“I am upset…”

“Louder.”

“I am upset!”

“You are a friendless junkie virgin who can't finish what he starts, so try, at least, to get this one, tiny, teensy little request right, for me. For the last fucking time, SAY IT LOUDER!”

Sherlock glared at Brook, and with one deep breath, shouted. “I AM UPSET!”

Sherlock then hunched over his violin, the bow shaking in his hand. He glanced around the room. All eyes stared back at him.

“Victor,” said Brook, nodding his head.

Victor nodded back, carefully keeping his gaze from Sherlock.

“Start practicing harder, Holmes,” said Brook. “Reichenbach. Once more from the top.”

He clapped the tempo, and the band played, as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock sat shaking, looking at the floor. Only one thought entered his mind.

_How am I going to get out of this? ___

\-------------------------------------------

Sherlock left Concert Band defeated. He managed to make his way to the dormitory, pull himself up the stairs and unlock the door to the Sliver, where he immediately dropped his violin, slammed the door shut and collapsed onto his bed. 

He laid there for a moment, relishing the quiet and the soft sheets, until he smelled smoke coming from the open window above. 

He forced himself up and through the window and flopped onto the ledge next to Wiggins, who was already halfway passed out, a ciggie hanging from his lip. 

He handed him a new pack of L&Ms and his own silver lighter. 

“Told you he was bully.”

Both sat quietly, too tired for a real conversation.

“He ripped me apart.” said Sherlock finally. “He broke me down. Me!”

“He’s an arsehole” said Wiggins, sitting up. “He’s nobody.”

“Did he do that to you too?”

“Not so much,” said Wiggins. “He targets certain players. Can’t find any rhyme or reason to it. I haven’t seen anyone humiliated like that in a while.”

Sherlock took a long drag and exhaled, smoke billowing from his lips. He immediately felt better. 

“Thanks for trying to warn me,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was going to be that intense.”

“Like I said, he’s nobody,” said Wiggins with certainty. Sherlock glanced up, his curiosity peaked. 

“You’ve said that twice,” said Sherlock. “You’re planning to be a professional musician. How is Maestro Richard Brook of Cromwell Music Conservatory a nobody?”

Wiggins laughed and flicked his cigarette.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, and glared at Wiggins. “Out with it.”

Wiggins laid back down, hands behind his head. “I can’t prove it. And I don’t really want to since I’m almost out of here. But I think he’s a fake.”

“How so?”

“Brook is a ghost,” he said. “No one can nail him down. I’ve got friends who’ve heard of him but never met him. Were in the same band and can’t remember his face.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah?” said Wiggins. “How about this. Carl Powers’s old man was the one who recommended him to the board for hire.”

Sherlock perked up. “Go on.”

Wiggins pulled out his flask and took a sip, then handed it to Sherlock. “Supposedly they met in Munich, been friends for years, but Carl didn’t have a clue who Brook was. Said he’d never seen him before in his life.”

“Did he think that unusual?” asked Sherlock. “I certainly don’t know all of my father’s friends.”

“Carl grew up half his life in Munich,” said Wiggins. “Musicians knew him from the time he was in grammar school until he graduated secondary.” He shook his head. “It didn’t add up.”

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and drank generously from the flask, deep in thought. Wiggins stood up, and lightly placed a concerned hand on his skinny shoulder. 

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Holmes, but be careful. He may be a ghost, but he’s also a very bad man.”

********

John rang that evening with good news. Sherlock was relieved to hear his voice.

“I’ve been chosen to assist with some heart surgeries next week,” he said cheerfully. “It’s quite a coup. I’ve had mates shooting me jealous looks all day.”

“Excellent news, John,” said Sherlock, trying desperately to be upbeat. “Come over to celebrate?” 

“I can’t. I have to make up my hours by pulling double shifts all week. But I’m free Saturday. I thought we could make an evening of it. You could come over here.”

Sherlock failed to reply. A whole week without John and facing Brook everyday was suddenly very overwhelming.

“Sherlock, is everything okay? You sound tired.”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock replied, pressing his finger and thumb over his eyelids. “Saturday is great. I’ll look forward to it.”

John was quiet for a moment, as if not convinced, but finally said, “Alright then. I’ll see you Saturday. Text me if you get bored.”

“I will. John? Again, congratulations. I’m happy for you.”

“Ta. I can’t wait to see you,” he replied assuredly. “Get some sleep, okay?”

Sherlock hung up, and curled back up on his bed, wishing he could.

*******

Concert band remained a living hell for Sherlock. He was singled out daily, though nothing was as violent or as intense as that first day. Brook would randomly call for Sherlock to play a solo, and though Sherlock would play it perfectly, would still pick him apart as if he made a mistake. 

Concert band practices were also doubled for the week, since the regional competition was Sunday at the Royal Concert Hall in London. The orchestra was playing two movements from Brook's Reichenbach. Sherlock, who had loved the piece upon hearing it the first time, had grown to hate it as much as he hated Brook.

It was late Friday night, and Sherlock made his way up to the fourth floor and locked himself in his practice room near the back door. He pulled out Reichenbach, and played it flawlessly from beginning to end. He then turned on the metronome and selected an impressive speed, the machine clicking back and forth furiously. As if to prove something to himself, Sherlock played the Reichenbach solo again, this time at breakneck pace.

He wiped the sweat from his brow as he felt a familiar, ominous presence in the room. He turned to find the locked door wide open with Brook in the doorway, tapping a large, wooden baton against his palm. 

“Have a seat, Sherlock,” he said firmly. 

Sherlock glared back at him, and reached up to turn off the metronome.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” Brook said smoothly. “Unless you deserve it.” He tapped the seat of the stool and motioned for Sherlock to sit.

Sherlock sat down.

Brook began to circle him like a lioness hunting a gazelle. 

“I want you to play scales for me Sherlock. Nice and slow.”

Sherlock’s blood boiled, but he raised his violin to his chin, hating his bow arm for trembling right before striking the strings. He played the scales slowly as instructed, up and up. Brook walked around him, directing him with his large wooden baton, his eyes closed. He smiled.

“Good, good,” he said. “Now, arpeggios. Snappy.” He counted off and Sherlock complied, playing quick notes up and down the skipping scales.

“Now,” smacking the music sheet with his baton. “From the beginning,” he said, flicking his wrist.

Sherlock missed the cue. 

The baton came down so hard on his back that Sherlock dropped his bow. It stung no worse than the shock, but tears still sprung into the backs of Sherlock's eyes. 

"Pick it up!" Brook commanded. 

Sherlock leaned over but his body betrayed him. He shook so hard it took him two attempts to pick up his bow.

"From the beginning." 

Brook loomed over him, counting him off. 

Miraculously, Sherlock hit his cue, and played perfectly. Brook still forced him to stop halfway through.

"I don't understand, it's not that hard!!" he whined. He walked around Sherlock twice, before unleashing a second strike with the baton along his shoulder blades. 

The young musician shook in his chair, holding tight to his violin. He dared not move from his seat, but every inch of his body was taut, wanting to bolt out of the door.

Brooks sat his baton on the music stand, and bent forward. Sherlock could feel his warm breath on his forehead. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” cooed Brook. “You’re cheekbones are exquisite.” His brushed the side of his index finger along Sherlock’s left cheek. Sherlock jerked way, genuinely shocked.

“Oh, not expecting that,” he said excitedly. He ran his fingers gently through Sherlock’s curls, then grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back.

“Expect the unexpected,” he hissed, releasing his grip. “Take off your shirt.”

Sherlock stared back at him defiantly. 

“Did I s-s-stutter?” laughed Brook. Sherlock stood up to unbutton his shirt. Brooks swatted him hard across the arse.

Sherlock winced at the pain, but continued to remove his shirt. He hung it up on the coat rack and sat back down, hanging his head in embarrassment. This had escalated past the point of return. Wiggins was right. Brook was dangerous.

“So young,” he moaned, rubbing the long stick along Sherlock’s chest, poking at his nipples. Sherlock tried to cover himself, but Brook told him to stop.

“Ah, Sherlock, I want to see you. I’m your professor, and I know what’s best for you,” he cooed. “Pick up your violin, and play my concerto.”

Sherlock did as he was told, forcing his arms steady as his bow struck the strings of his instrument. He played well, but he felt the wooden stick sliding softly around his neck and down his back and into the cleft of his trousers.

Sherlock abruptly stood up. Brook rewarded him with multiple lashes across his back.

“Sit. Down.”

Sherlock obeyed, his chest heaving. Something wet fell on his arm. He reached up and felt his cheeks. When had he started to cry?

“You know, some day you’ll grow to enjoy this,” said Brook causally. “I know it’s hard to believe, but there’s pleasure in pain. You just have to learn how to receive it.”

Several immediate blows to his back and Sherlock was finally brought to his knees. Brook grabbed him by the hair again and dragged him across the floor to the open doorway. 

Sherlock struggled but Brook pinned him to the floor, straddling him and holding the baton against his neck. Sherlock suddenly felt hot lips on his body as Brook licked at his mouth. He gently kissed him over and over, then suddenly bit down on the sensitive skin just below his jaw. He sucked and sucked until the skin turned bright purple.

Brook then released him, and Sherlock shot to his feet, running half-naked down the hallway and out the back door. He heard Brook laughing in the distance as he hid himself among the many nooks in the great hall. 

He hid for so long that he awoke the next morning still curled in the same position from the night before. Luckily, it was still early enough that he could sneak into the practice room and retrieve his belongings, before returning to the dormitory and locking himself in the Sliver until evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in the Concert band scene was taken word for word from Chazelle’s Whiplash script.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson’s flat is only 300 square feet, but the two young men make the most of it.

John Watson's living space was a mere 300 square feet, but a full-sized couch, huge flat screen, large wooden desk and a double bed were crammed in the space, leaving little room to slide into the tiny kitchen and bathroom which took up the rest of the square flat. 

"It's a sublet, so I own nothing in here, except my clothes and books of course," explained John, as he offered Sherlock the tour that evening. "It's my cousin Raibert's. He's in Malta on his elective. I'll be homeless in a couple of months, but for now..." John plopped on the couch and spread his arms wide, grinning. "It's all mine."

Sherlock cracked a smile for the first time in days. He sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, but John immediately pulled him down on top of him, kissing Sherlock sweetly and holding him close.

"God I missed you," John said breathlessly, as he gently brushed his lips along Sherlock's long, graceful neck. 

In response, Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulder and pulled him closer. He’d done his best to cover the spot along his jaw, but John would eventually notice. He was not looking forward to telling him what had happened the night before.

"You okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," came Sherlock's muffled response. "Now."

John ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock's curls. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No." Sherlock didn't move from John. He clung to him like wet towel.

"What if I poured us both a drink, I let you smoke - with the window open- and we look through the news for unsolved crimes."

Sherlock pulled away, his face flushed and curious. "You'll let me smoke inside?"

John raised his eyebrows. "With the window open. With you blowing the smoke out of the apartment."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course, John. Where's the scotch?"

A couple of drinks in and both young men were relaxed and deeply discussing a case involving two young homosexuals and a double murder that was, Sherlock declared, "terribly romantic". His face was lit up like a Christmas tree as he put the pieces together of the torrid, tragic love story based on facts from the papers and from what they could each find online. 

"Don't you see, John? He was driven MAD by his love for Paulo!" Sherlock bounced so hard on the bed he almost hit his head on the ceiling. "He wanted nothing in the world but to be with his lover, and he killed his wife. And at the exact same time..."

"-Paulo killed Sven's wife. And both unaware of each other's plan," John gaped. He slammed his empty glass on the tiny kitchen counter. "Amazing, Sherlock. Absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock gazed at John for a long moment, and whispered, "I love it when you say that."

"What?" said John, as he slowly approached Sherlock, crowding his space, slowly forcing him down on to the bed. "You are brilliant," John whispered in Sherlock's ear, his lips barely brushing his earlobe. "And amazing." John's hand slid underneath Sherlock's buttocks, pulling their hips together. "And bloody fucking gorgeous."

"Oh, John," groaned Sherlock, his plump, wet lips searching for John's as his body was pressed deep into the mattress. Sherlock's legs parted and John slid comfortably in between, his hands slipping underneath the tight button-down shirt stretched over the young man's flushing chest.

"John, are you going to...ahh..." 

"Mmm?" John's tongue was licking where his nimble fingers had just undone shirt buttons. His lips encircled and gently sucked on a perfectly pink, erect nipple. Sherlock rose halfway off the bed in response.

"Ohh, John," he gasped. "I need...to tell you -"

"I know what you need," growled John, as he sat up and tossed Sherlock's shirt across the room. He pulled his own t-shirt swiftly over his head and settled back on top of Sherlock, capturing the young man's lips with his own and kissing him passionately. Trousers and pants soon followed the fate of the shirts, and Sherlock found himself, for the first time, completely naked and breathless in bed with another human being. 

All at once he felt safe and desired. When John kissed him, touched him, whispered to him, his mind finally quieted down. All of his keen senses welcomed John's smell, his touch, his breath. A hand grazing the slope of his hip, a soft nibble on his ear drove him mad.

Sherlock let John roll him gently onto his side facing out, his solid arm embracing Sherlock's chest, still holding him close. His tender lips sucked marks into the pale flesh of his neck as his thick palm pulled firmly on Sherlock's hardening cock. Sherlock could feel John's erection pressed against his coccyx, and he heard himself moan as he reached behind him to grip the back of John's muscled thigh.

Sherlock felt lips graze his shoulder, and reality hit him like a punch to the stomach. Just as he began to protest and turn, John gasped. 

"Sherlock," exclaimed John. "What the hell happened?!"

Sherlock didn't answer, but rose from the bed and padded the few steps to the kitchen. His erection jutted out from his body, dark and full. He was suddenly ashamed, and his shoulders slumped as he covered his aroused genitals with both hands.

"Sherlock," John said, his tone softening. He didn't move off the bed, but his stare did not falter either. "Just tell me - " his voice broke, but he quickly pulled himself back together. "Who in the bloody hell did that to you?"

Sherlock turned away, his lithe body starting to shake nervously. He knew how bad it had to look; the swollen, red welts from the baton standing out prominently on his white skin, the swollen mark under his jaw a scarlet pock marring the landscape of his pale neck.

"John," said Sherlock weakly.

"I'm going to murder them," said John, his anger rising as he bolted off the bed. He reached past Sherlock to grab the bottle of Scotch, filling the tumbler full, only to chug it down in a few gulps. His whole chest and neck were flushed, and much like Sherlock, he was trembling. 

"No," Sherlock pleaded. "You'll stay away, John. I mean it. He's dangerous."

"Yeah, well I don’t really care," said John, his eyes flashing. "Who is he?" he growled.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, his blunt chin taut with worry. 

"Sherlock," warned John. He slammed his fist onto the counter in frustration, making the glasses jump and rattle. More importantly, it shocked Sherlock into answering. 

"It was my professor, Richard Brook," admitted Sherlock. He began to shake with rage, his emotions finally getting the best of him. "I thought I had it under control, but, last night…” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I’m in over my head, John. I don’t know what to do.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “That’s the office the tunnel led too...that’s his office.” Sherlock didn’t confirm nor deny, so John continued. “Don’t play dumb, Sherlock. I saw the nameplate.”

Sherlock’s body crumpled in defeat and John immediately had his arms around him in a tight embrace. He burrowed gratefully into John's hard chest. 

"Shh, it’s alright," John said tenderly. “We’ll figure it out.”

"Promise me you'll stay away from him," Sherlock pleaded again, pulling back and taking John’s face in his hands.

A short, frustrated sound escaped John's throat as he struggled to keep his composure. "You need to report this. To the police, to the chancellor, to someone."

"No," said Sherlock. "I can’t." His slender palm cupped John's jaw, his thumb slowly stroking his stubbled cheek. "I can't."

John eyes flickered with confusion and anger. He licked his lips in protest. "You can't be alone with him again. Ever."

Sherlock nodded subtly in agreement, though he knew he was lying.

"If he even thinks about touching you again, he'll have to answer to me."

John's protective response released a sweet little shock through Sherlock's body. A small smile crept to his lips, despite the circumstances.

"Promise me," John said seriously. "Never find yourself alone with him. If you do, leave immediately."

Sherlock shook his head. "I promise," he replied. Another lie. 

John then took Sherlock’s hands in his own and kissed them, managing a weary smile. He led Sherlock back to the bed where he wrapped them both up in the blanket and they laid together, just breathing together and getting warm again. Eventually they began nuzzling and kissing, forcing the ominous presence of Richard Brook out of their minds. John lifted Sherlock's chin gently with his finger.

"I know this will make me sound like a caveman," said John softly. "But I can't stand it that he touched you in places I haven't even touched you yet."

Sherlock leaned forward and earnestly whispered, "Then touch me. I want to feel you everywhere." He placed a chaste kiss on John's lips. "Only you."

John's eyes grew dark with want. He licked his lips. 

"Are you sure?" 

Sherlock watched John's lips, wet and perfect. "Yes, I’m sure," he said softly. "Just..." His soft gaze met John's. "Talk to me. Please. Tell me what to do."

John kissed him and placed Sherlock's hand against his solid chest. "Just be with me." 

Sherlock nodded and smiled, willingly following John's lead. He took Sherlock into his arms and pushed him down onto the bed.

"God, so beautiful," John whispered, letting his lips glide down Sherlock's chest, over his abdomen and into the trail of light, reddish hair that surrounded his already hardening penis. John breathed deeply, and then let his breath fall hot over Sherlock's groin. His hand carefully gripped the base of Sherlock's burgeoning prick.

"I'm going to take some liberties down here." 

Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s and held on tight.

"It will feel good, I promise."

Sherlock felt John’s lips tickle his groin, and then the tip of his penis slid into a hot, wet mouth. He couldn’t help but moaned obscenely at the sensation. John’s tongue lightly worked the tip as fingers tugged at his sensitive sac. A palm followed underneath and rubbed firmly between his legs, making him writhe against the sheets. He felt a bit of cum escape from his cock, which John greedily lapped up. 

Sherlock scrambled to sit up for better look, his upper body resting on his elbows, his neck straining to see the lovely things he was feeling. John looked up, his cheeks still still sunken in from sucking on the tip of Sherlock's prick. Their eyes met and locked in a passionate glance, and Sherlock wondered, just for moment, if he was going to come just from the sight of John Watson's mouth on his cock. 

Sherlock marveled at how his long, slender prick completely disappeared into John's throat. He felt the sensation of being swallowed whole over and over while watching John's adam's apple bob up and down. He moaned in response, his hips writhing and trying to buck, but his partner laid a strong, solid arm over his abdomen to hold him down. His head fell back, his curls tickling his shoulders as he floated away, the heat surrounding him, John's thick fingers between his legs, making him feel everything.

John's warm tongue then licked at his lips, shushing him, laying him back onto the bed. "Oh, John," whispered Sherlock. 

John deepened his kisses, settling on top of Sherlock, palms rubbing his chest, gripping his hips. John's lips trailed kisses up his long slender neck, then gently nibbled on his earlobe.

“Now, bend your knees a bit,” John said softly. 

Sherlock felt John’s hands on the back of his thighs, holding him steady as his stubbled jaw brushed against Sherlock’s exposed arse.

A whimper escaped his throat in anticipation. A moment of embarrassment made him tense up, but once John’s hot tongue slid along the cleft of his behind, all was forgotten except what was happening where Sherlock couldn’t see. 

John’s tongue probed Sherlock’s center, softening the muscle and eventually pushing inside. Sherlock gasped as John pushed his thighs up, hot breath on his cock, the sensation of being swallowed whole as fingers gently filled him up. 

John’s mouth expertly worked his prick up and down as he gently fucked the younger man's tight center with care. Sherlock lost his breath as the fingers brushed against an intimate place deep inside of him, causing fireworks in his cock and pleasure to radiate through his arse and thighs.

“Oh John do that again,” he begged. “Please, please do that again.”

John complied, and Sherlock was lost again in pleasure, his thighs shaking and his hips squirming in response. 

John coaxed Sherlock’s legs back down onto the bed and cradled Sherlock in the crook of his arm. He spread his lover’s narrow thighs apart with his knees. 

Sherlock felt their pricks touch as John kissed him deeply, his tongue licking and exploring the inside of mouth. 

John broke the kiss long enough to whisper:

“I’m going to make you ready for me,” he said softly. “I’m going to open you up even more with my fingers, until you can take my cock.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding, but felt the familiar feeling of his stomach twisting into knots at the thought of such intimacy. But instead of dwelling on it, he caught John’s lips with his own, and kissed him sweetly, trying to show him with his mouth and lips and tongue how much he wanted to be with him.

He heard John gasped in surprise, their emotions suddenly in sync and all at once overwhelming. John pulled Sherlock close, kissing him, holding him, stroking him. 

“God, you’re amazing,” he whispered passionately. “I’m going to make you feel so good. I’ve never wanted anyone so much.”

John’s words were a tonic for Sherlock's hesitation. He opened himself wide as thick, slicked fingers gently pushed inside of him, working him into a frenzy as he was stimulated over and over again by gentle pressure and well placed fingertips.

And when John removed his gathered fingers from Sherlock’s behind, he wanted nothing more than to be filled up again. John laid back onto the bed, propping up the pillows behind his head and rolling a condom onto his large, stiff penis. He smiled at Sherlock, and then pulled him down into a kiss. 

“Now you’re in control,” he said gently, running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “I’ll help you, but you decide how much, how fast, how slow. And believe me,” He lifted Sherlock’s chin up to meet his eyes. “I’ll be enjoying myself. Stay out of that mind of yours,” he said, grinning. 

Sherlock smiled back, grateful for the pep talk, and kissed him for it. Sherlock carefully positioned himself over John’s lap as he stroked himself. He watched John add lubricant to his own sheathed member, stroking it up and down, it somehow growing even bigger in size. Sherlock braced a hand against John’s chest, and with the other, held on to the base of John’s prick below him.

He gently lowered himself onto John, the tip sliding inside of him. Excitement filled his trembling body. He braced himself with both hands against John’s abdomen as he pushed down more, feeling the stretch of his body fighting against the invasion, a feeling of heat and fire and pain briefly sweeping through his senses. 

He let up, realizing he was grimacing. He glanced up at John, who smiled back encouragingly. 

“You’re doing great,” he said, caressing Sherlock’s milky thighs.

Sherlock eased himself onto him again, the penetration still uncomfortable, his body hunched forward a bit as his fingers gripped John’s wrists. 

John placed a warm hand on Sherlock's waist. “Try straightening your back.”

Sherlock followed the instruction, and as he leaned back his lower body aligned with the angle of John’s cock, and Sherlock easily sunk down all the way to the root. 

He cried out, the burning pressure overwhelming at first. John coaxed him through it, told him to hold still and let himself adjust. Slowly, the majority of the burning went away, and he was left with a dull, tolerable ache. He dared to move his hips very slowly, then gingerly up and down over John's thighs. 

John was already sweating when Sherlock looked down at him, a look of pure pleasure on his face. His chest was rising and falling with jagged breaths. He held on gently to Sherlock’s hips as Sherlock grew used to John filling him up.

“Will you take over?” Sherlock suddenly asked. He trembled as he twisted his hips, not wanting to admit how awkward he felt.

“Yes, ‘course,” answered John as he helped him lie on his back. John slipped eagerly between Sherlock’s legs. 

When John entered him, Sherlock was relieved at how willingly his body accepted him, as if it wanted to suck his lover in as far as he could go. He immediately felt better with John in control, his weight pressing down on top of him. John fucked him ever so slowly, their eyes locked together as their breaths mingled and hot mouths met over and over, Sherlock's long slender member trapped between their warm bellies, hard and slick.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock felt his breath quicken against him, his hips suddenly bucking hard against his narrow thighs. Sherlock whimpered, and John breathed out a “sorry” as he restrained himself, pulling back in his thrusts, his head collapsing into the pillow next to Sherlock’s ear. His tanned shoulders shook in temporary relief. 

Sherlock raked his long fingers through John’s short, blond hair, and pulled the soon-to-be doctor tightly against his chest while wrapping his legs firmly around John’s waist, his feet brushing his arse. John cried out helplessly and whispered, “Sherlock, oh, God, I can’t…”

“Come inside me, John,” Sherlock whispered back. 

John looked up, his eyes dark and hooded, his resolve crumbling. He rocked deeply into Sherlock, pulled out, and then shoved his cock back in, hard. 

Sherlock grunted in pain, but held onto him even tighter.

“Oh God Sherlock, don’t let me hurt you,” John pleaded, his hips already betraying him, snapping against Sherlock’s body.

He held Sherlock down and began to fuck him roughly, pressing his body deep into the mattress. Sherlock held on to him for dear life as John’s palms pushed against the back of his skinny thighs and forced his knees to open wider, his mouth suddenly covered by John’s mouth, his whimpers muffled by John’s tongue. He pounded into Sherlock, in and out, over and over and over again, his sweat dripping onto his Sherlock’s cheeks and running down his neck, Sherlock’s body aching from the abuse.

Sherlock had a terrifying thought that he was going to have to make John stop, when he felt warmth fill him from inside. John thrusted and jerked and stopped breathing, then collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving and sweat pouring from his forehead. 

“Oh, God, fuck,” he said between gasps of breath. “Hold on,” he said, as he jumped off the bed and disappeared momentarily into the bathroom. He came back out, the condom gone and the sweat wiped off of his face. He carried with him a damp flannel. 

He crawled on top of Sherlock, who was sitting up, a looked of bewilderment on his face. He wiped Sherlock’s face, neck and chest with the flannel, then threw it on the nightstand.

"Lie back," mumbled John against Sherlock's red and swollen lips. Sherlock did as he was told, settling back on the pillows propping his head. John kissed the top of each of Sherlock's bony knees, then deftly slid a finger inside his still slicked and open center. 

Sherlock gasped. His arse was throbbing, but it still felt so _good _. John expertly massaged him from the inside as his other hand gripped Sherlock's now stiffening prick, stroking it smoothly and swiftly. Sherlock arched his statuesque body in response.__

"Oh, _God _," he groaned.__

John grinned at Sherlock's reaction. He stopped for a moment and leaned forward, kissing him deeply and without preamble all over his lips, cheeks and neck, then returned to stroking him, fucking him with his finger. 

It only took a minute or so, and Sherlock was coming with jagged swells of breath and deep grunts as he curled forward, almost in half, with John pumping the last bit of sweet come out of his partner's aching cock. 

Sherlock then watched in shock and pleasure as John leaned over his taught stomach and licked him clean, then leaned forward to shove his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth. He could taste himself on his tongue. He reveled in the sensation.

"Better?" mumbled John against his lips.

Sherlock sighed. "I've never...I'm..."

John smiled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him close, letting the young man's curly head rest against his chest.

"I think I'm vibrating," said Sherlock humbly. 

John ran a hand over Sherlock's. "You were amazing," said John, threading their fingers together. 

“You,” said Sherlock, a reverent smile on his lips. “It felt like -” Sherlock stopped himself.

“Go on,” said John. “It felt like -”

Sherlock looked at John thoughtfully. “It felt like we were making love.” Then he grinned. “Well, in the beginning.”

John chuckled, then pressed the back of Sherlock's hand to his lips. “I got carried away.” He brushed an errant curl behind the young man’s ear. “Besides, anytime you wrap those legs around me, I’ll lose myself a bit.”

“You do have an Achilles heel,” teased Sherlock. 

John laughed uncomfortably. “I do,” he said, blushing. “And yeah, we were.”

“‘We were’...?”said Sherlock, confused.

“Making love,” said John shyly, looking down at their clasped hands. 

Sherlock suddenly kissed him with everything he had. 

“I love you, John,” he whispered, settling himself into the crook of John's shoulder. There they laid for a good half hour, enjoying each other’s bodies and warmth and breath.

********

It was finally Sherlock’s stomach that summoned them from their lie in. 

It growled so loudly that John burst out laughing, then asked him how long it been since he’d eaten. When Sherlock couldn't remember, he jumped out of bed and immediately called the Chinese takeaway around the corner. 

An hour later, both young men were still naked, now lying on the couch and eating noodles. The sun had set and the room was dark, save for a small lit lamp on the desk. Sherlock was half on John’s chest, his impossibly long legs stretched over the end of the couch. 

“Carl Powers drowned in my room,” he said suddenly. He looked up at John, who had a mouthful of noodles, half which were still hanging from his lips. He almost choked trying to swallow them down.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, gasping. 

Sherlock put down his plain lo mein and grabbed his phone. “Carl Powers,” he repeated, shoving the phone in John’s face. 

On the screen was an online article from the London Times. John took the phone and began to read:

“Student dies in mysterious drowning accident,” he quoted. “Carlos P. Powers II, 19, of Nottingham, died yesterday in his dorm room at Cromwell Music Conservatory. Powers, the son of Carlos P. Powers I, British composer and maestro of the Munich Symphony, was found dead at the scene face down in the shower located in his dormitory at the Cromwell student living quarters. Cause of death is ruled drowning. Authorities do not suspect foul play.” John gave the phone back to Sherlock. “That’s awful.”

“Yes,” mumbled Sherlock. “But I don’t think it was an accident.” 

John’s face contorted in confusion. “Murder? Why would you think that?”

Sherlock had already typed again into his phone, this time showing him Carl Powers’s Facebook page. 

“Look at his profile, particularly his photographs,” Sherlock instructed. 

John scrolled through the pictures. 

“What do you see?”asked Sherlock. 

“I see a young man who likes to take a lot of selfies,” said John. “And he doesn’t seem to have many friends. A bit of a loner, I guess.”

“What else?”

John looked again, and shrugged his shoulders. “He likes music. He has those expensive headphones. What are they called, Beats or something?”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock, taking the phone back, his eyes glistening at John. “He is always wearing his neon green headphones. Shy, introverted, in a world of noise and chaos, headphones allow control of at least one of his senses,” he said matter-of-faculty, picking his noodles back up and shoving a few strands into his mouth.

“But why would that make you suspicious of murder?”said John, now sitting up, interested. 

“Because,” said Sherlock, “The headphones were missing when the Yard searched his dorm room.”

“But how did you get a hold of such a random piece of information?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John got up, took the box of noodles out of his hand and pulled him into his arms. 

“You’re so bloody odd,” he whispered. “And I love you.” He kissed him once, then twice. Sherlock reached down and picked up the last egg roll, and positioned it in front of John’s lips. He took a bite.

“We should solve crimes together,” said Sherlock softly. “We make a great team.”

John’s eyes searched Sherlock’s. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” John said. “I wish you’d trust me enough to let me in on it.” Sherlock fed him the rest of egg roll, and Sherlock kissed his lips as he chewed.

“It has nothing to do with trust.”

“Then what?”said John, growing impatient. “Sherlock, I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“That’s just it, John,” said Sherlock. “I’m not the one that needs protecting.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, engaged in a battle of wills. John finally looked away.

“Alright,” said John, pointing a finger sternly at Sherlock. “But you promised me you’d stay away from that bloody Professor Brooks. Keep your word on that and I’ll not press you any further. Deal?”

Sherlock nodded. “Deal.” 

John lowered his hand and gently brushed his palms against his narrow shoulders. “Now let me see,” he said softly.

Sherlock didn’t protest as he sat up and turned around so John could assess the damage. He didn’t say anything for quite a while.

“John?”

“He hit your ten times,” he grumbled incredulously. 

“How do they look?”

John forced himself into doctor-mode. “Superficial. He didn't break the skin but in two places, and that’s healing fine. No sign of infection. It’ll be gone in a week or two,” he said stiffly.

Sherlock turned back and gathered John in his arms. “Enough, now. Tell me, when’s surgery?”

John took a deep breath and released it, obviously moving on for Sherlock's sake. “7am tomorrow. A young girl named Sam. I met her this morning,” he said, his eyes deep in thought. “We’re repairing a heart defect she was born with. After the surgery, she’ll be able to run and jump and swim like a normal kid.” He smiled to himself. “Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky, getting to do the things I do.”

Sherlock stared deeply into his dark blue eyes, and kissed the back of his hand. “Luck, my dear John, has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” smiled John. “I dare say it was luck that bounced that rugby ball off your head.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I thought it was your mate who didn’t know ‘his arse from an ankle tap’,” he said. 

John chuckled. “That too.”

Both men decidedly dozed together on the couch before finally moving to the bed to settle in early for the night. They both started out separate with their backs turned, but awoke the next morning wrapped in each other's arms and legs, sweaty and comfortable and completely content.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor disappears, and Sherlock is beside himself. John doesn’t take the outcome of his first surgery well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****graphic sex scene in this chapter, implied consent*****

It was pure chaos at the Royal Concert Hall, with parents, friends, children, players, and all kinds of instruments heavily populating the corridors. Sherlock pushed past the mob and into the assigned practice room. Most of the orchestra was there, warming up. He found Victor in the corner polishing his violin, alone. 

Sherlock had failed to attend the last couple of Monday night sessions. He hadn’t felt up to it after the grueling Concert Band ordeals, and frankly, he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to talk to Victor after what he and John had seen that night in the group practice room.

He knew the young musician had to have invaluable information about Brook, plus Sherlock wasn’t so sure Victor was as enamored with the professor as he pretended to be. Considering Victor’s sizable secret, the one Sherlock had guessed by chance, the young concertmaster might actually be a victim of blackmail. Plus, Brook was dangerous. It was for those reasons Sherlock finally chose to confront him, walking up beside the Victor as he was preparing for the concert.

“Sherlock!” exclaimed Victor. A look of genuine concern filled his face, his dimples all but disappearing. “Are you alright?” He placed a hand tenderly on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’ve missed you at the Monday night sessions.” He placed his wax back inside his case and shut it, his violin and bow tucked under his arm. He lowered his voice. “I know it’s tough right now, but it will get better. I promise.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Sherlock, slamming his case shut with one hand while holding his violin and bow in the other. 

Victor shook his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock leaned in, his lips close to Victor’s ear, and whispered: “I saw you.” 

Victor stopped breathing as Sherlock watched his cappuccino colored skin turn to shades of deep pink. 

“He did things to you,” Sherlock continued. “I’m a witness. You can report him -”

Victor pulled back, a look of horror on his face. He shook his head, and in a raspy, accusatory whisper lashed out as much as he could without drawing attention of the others.

“I thought you understood. I can’t just report him!”

“He was beating you. Let me help. Whatever he’s got on you -”

“Stop!” He begged, tears forming behind his eyes. “You told me once, you keep to yourself, mind your own business. It’s not your concern!”

“Victor -” pleaded Sherlock. 

“No!” Victor responded vehemently. It was loud enough they caught a few glances from the room. Victor managed to compose himself just as Brook entered the room. 

“Come on, people, we’re on in five,” he shouted. He eyed Sherlock and Victor in the corner. Sherlock averted his gaze, but Victor glared back. 

Sherlock reluctantly moved on, taking his place in line with the strings. 

******

The orchestra played the first movement of Reichenbach for the initial round of competition. The band was in near perfect form, and Victor wowed the judges with his solo. The band easily slid into the finals. Now it was a waiting game, the judges deciding when to call them back into play their final piece. 

Sherlock immediately went to speak to Victor during the break, but he was nowhere to be found. He checked all over, even the rooftop, but he seemed to have disappeared. Sherlock resigned himself to a smoke outside by the dumpster. A bad feeling came over him, but he decided he was overreacting. Victor would reappear at 3:30pm to play the last solo, and then, Sherlock would invite him out for a drink. Maybe he could convince him to turn Brook over to the police. 

But when 3:30pm came, Victor was still missing. Sherlock stood in line, last of the strings, as they were about to enter the stage. 

“Sherlock,” said Brook, approaching him. “Victor is out. I need you for Reichenbach.”

“Where is he?” demanded Sherlock. Brook gave him a shrug as if he didn’t know, but his eyes told a different story. “You’re on, squeaker.” He snapped his finger and pointed to the front of the line. Sherlock gave Brook a knowing look but then took his place in the front. 

The lights were bright on the stage as the orchestra walked out to take their seats. Everyone stared at Sherlock as he took his place in front of the band. Brook leaned forward and whispered into his ear. 

“Don’t fuck this up,” he cood.

Sherlock pulled away from him, and with purpose, tucked his violin under his chin, his elbow raised, his bow poised to strike. 

Fifteen minutes later, the orchestra filed back down in the hallway, whooping and cheering and patting an exhausted, sweaty Sherlock on the back. They had taken first place, and had qualified for the nationals in December. 

Sherlock pretended to care, but his mind was only on that of Victor Trevor. Could he have met the same fate as Carl Powers?

And could Brook be the murderer?

********

That evening, Sherlock stood in front of an off-campus housing complex, and rang the buzzer for room 301 next to where the name “Trevor” was written in messy black ink. 

No one answered. 

Sherlock figured he could crawl up the firescape and jimmy the window, but the area was too active with students constantly in and out of the complex. His phone buzzed, and he looked down to see a text from John. 

_Surgery went great, patient resting. How’s the concert?_

_First place. Come out? Need your help. SH_

_Brilliant! On rounds, double shift. Emergency?_

_No. Just miss you. SH_

_Miss you too. :) ___

*********

He knew he’d promised John to never go down there alone. But desperate times called for desperate measures. 

The cavern was surprisingly warm despite the freezing temperature outside. Sherlock placed the white allergy mask over his nose and mouth as he approached the archway to the second and unexplored corridor. He was taking precautions, because he wasn’t stopping until he found something to put Brook away, even if it took all night. 

He gripped the straps of his bursting backpack and carefully made his way through the narrow archway. He was greeted by an immediate fifteen meter drop. 

He stumbled back to keep from falling, landing on his behind. He knew he could jump down into the passage, but he wasn’t sure he could scale it on his way back, so zipped open his bag and tied a rope around a large, buried rock and threw the rest of it down to the drop. 

Once inside, he followed the pathway as it wound around deeper and deeper into the earth until he heard the roar of water directly ahead. 

Sherlock turned the corner and there, in front of him, was a beautiful, underground spring with a small waterfall tumbling down smooth, large stones. The waterfall was just big enough for him to step behind it. There, he found a shallow cave, and buried under a large, dirty tarp, a generator. 

The machine was cold but low on petrol. Sherlock found no petrol can as he explored the inside of the cave. He snapped a quick photo of the generator with his phone before walking around to the pool of water. 

The spring was surprisingly clear and full of fish. Sherlock peered into the water, looking for clues. He found two sets of footprints along the rocky bank that led back up to the generator. Both mysteriously disappeared at the cave’s wall. 

Sherlock, remembering the brick wall in the tunnel, immediately felt around the rocks and within moments, pushed a lever that popped open the bogus barricade.

Sherlock stepped inside and began to take photos as fast as his iPhone would let him. 

Stack after stack after stack of coffins filled the room, all open, bodies crumbling inside or dumped unceremoniously all over the ground. Sherlock began to cough and choke from the dust and backed away, out of the room, shocked and overwhelmed and ready to flee. 

He tore off his mask and settled in front of the waterfall, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. He had the good sense to turn around and close the fabricated entryway, but the suction pulled the allergy mask from his grasp and it flew into the waterfall. 

Sherlock knew his retreat was imminent. He attempted to retrieve the mask, but it was nowhere to be found in and around the pounding and running water. 

He finally gave in and made his way back to the surface as quickly as his legs could take him. 

*****

When Victor didn’t show up for Concert Band the next morning, everyone was on edge, some glaring at Sherlock, others looking sadly at his empty chair. 

Sherlock did not expect Brook to address his absence immediately, but that’s exactly what he did. He stepped up onto the podium, his eyes swollen, his cheeks red. He braced himself against his music stand with both hands, and reluctantly addressed the band. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said sadly. “Unbeknownst to me, Victor Trevor suffered a serious accident yesterday at the Royal Concert Hall while awaiting our second performance.”

Several players gasped. Sherlock began to seethe. _What did you do to him, Brook?_

“He accidentally fell down some stairs,” he said, his bottom lip trembling. “He broke his arm. In three places.” 

Oh gods and oh nos and Holy Mary's echoed through the room. Sherlock continued to glare at Brook. Tells were all over his silly, overwrought performance. 

“Now this young man’s future hangs in the balance of his doctors,” continued Brook, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Let’s all hope and pray Victor Trevor has a full and speedy recovery, and is back in the concertmaster chair very soon. Let’s have a moment of silence for Victor.”

A few mumbled “amen” while others fought back sniffles. The room grew quiet, as Brook bowed his head. 

Sherlock’s rage boiled over. He stood up, grabbed his music and violin case and left the room, slamming the door behind him. 

********

Sherlock had waited most of the day for Brook to come. He was in the same practice room as always, toward the end of the row and near the back door.

He’d went back and forth multiple times, from stewing in his emotions and to playing them out on his violin. His fingertips sizzled and burned from overplaying.

_Show your face, you coward._

Sherlock growled in frustration as he began to play again, just as a string on his bow broke. He threw the Reichenbach sheet music sheets angrily across the room, then glared at the metronome still clicking away. He picked it up and slammed it against the stone wall, breaking it to pieces. 

Sherlock roughly ran his fingers through his hair, making his fingertips sting. He looked down at his hands to see them smeared in blood. Every fingertip, save one, was cracked open and bleeding. 

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, as he grabbed his spitshine rag and tore it in two, wrapping each piece of cloth over the tops of his hands and tying it off. A firm knock at the door made Sherlock practically jumped out of his skin. 

_Finally._

Sherlock steeled himself as he opened the door. 

John stood on the other side, red-cheeked and trembling. 

"John?" said Sherlock incredulously. 

"Hey," he replied softly. He hovered uneasily in the hallway, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

He was wearing a short sleeved undershirt and thin sweatpants, as if he'd just chucked his scrubs but didn't bother to redress.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded. He grabbed both of John’s hands and squeezed. 

"You're freezing. John, where's your coat?"

John's eyes were unfocused and red around the rims. It took him a few moments to realize Sherlock had asked him a question. 

"My - oh. I must've forgotten it. I just started walking," he said. Slowly his face softened as he realized Sherlock was holding onto him. He smiled weakly. "I guess my autopilot brought me here." 

"As it should," said Sherlock, pulling him inside and closing the door. He unhooked his Belstaff from the coat rack and wrapped it around John, rubbing his shoulders vigorously in an attempt to warm him. 

"Do you want to sit?"

"No," he answered. He stood still and allowed Sherlock to hold and massage him. He eventually nestled his face in Sherlock's chest, gripping the front of his partner’s white button-down.

They stood that way for a long time, until John broke the silence with a sudden, heartbreaking sob. His once firm grip dissolved as his strong, solid shoulders shook with emotion. He sagged against Sherlock’s chest, tears soaking the young man’s shirt.

“John,” pleaded Sherlock. “Calm down, love.” 

It was the term Sherlock used that brought John to his senses. He laughed awkwardly though his tears. “You called me ‘love’,” he said. 

“I’m going to call you ‘idiot’ if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” snapped Sherlock, through there was no bite in his bark. 

John stared at Sherlock with his puffy eyes and swollen nose, and tried to compose himself. He shook his head, and swallowed, then tried again. 

“Surgery,” he managed to squeak out. 

“What about it?” said Sherlock, his large hands now steadying John’s head. Sherlock searched his face for clues. “Something went wrong wiith the surgery.”

John nodded his head. Fresh tears spilled out of his eyes. “Sam…” he said between sobs. “She’s dead. And it’s all my fault.” John’s eyes search his own for anything to stop the pain, to relieve him of the guilt. 

“That’s preposterous. You were only assisting with the surgery.”

John shook his head adamantly. “The clamps. It was my job to count the clamps.”

Sherlock realized what John was saying. “Oh, John,” he said sadly. He brushed his hand over his cheek and pulled him close. 

“I killed her,” he said quietly. 

“No, John, no,” whispered Sherlock. “You didn’t kill her.” He pulled John from him and looked him in the eyes. “You didn’t kill her.”

John looked back at him, his face crumpling again. “But she’s dead,” he croaked. “I made a stupid mistake, and she’s dead. Because of me.”

“John,” said Sherlock patiently. “Let’s get you home. You’re dehydrated and exhausted. You need to sleep.”

John stood up on his tiptoes and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. “I want you to fuck me,” he said sadly. “Hurt me,” he whispered, shrugging off the Belstaff and pulling his shirt over his head and shucking his sweatpants. He began unbuttoning Sherlock’s Oxford. 

“John, stop it.”

“Make me,” he said, pushing the white button down off Sherlock’s shoulders and on to the floor. 

John slipped one of Sherlock’s nipples into his mouth and sucked. Sherlock brought his hand to the back of John’s neck and pulled him off. Their eyes locked in a challenge of wills.

“Sherlock,” John whimpered desperately. He closed his eyes, but Sherlock had seen the shame in them. It shattered his heart into pieces. 

“On your knees,” Sherlock said, roughly forcing John to the ground. John's eyes flashed up in gratitude, then unbuttoned the bespoke trousers to pull out his lover’s cock. John sucked his prick violently, slowing and pulling off as soon as Sherlock got close to coming, then starting all over with a nimble tongue and a wandering hand. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to do or how to do it. He finally pulled him away and shoved him hard up against the wall. He thought of a video he saw once, something Seb made him watch. He pinned John in place with his chest as he picked him up by his powerful thighs, forcing his short muscular legs to wrap around his narrow waist. 

“I could fuck you just like this,” growled Sherlock. “It would hurt, because you’re not ready for me. But you’re such a little slut, you’d love it, wouldn’t you.”

John shuddered against him, his large cock red and leaking and hard against his stomach. His eyes were shut, his mind gone. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, yes, fuck me, just like this.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s ear, and hotly whispered. “No.” John groaned as Sherlock dropped him back to his feet, but they both slid to the ground against the wall. John immediately straddled Sherlock’s hips, kissing him messily and at the same time shoving his fingers into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sucked on his fingers, letting the saliva gather as he watched John pull them out and reach back to open himself.

Sherlock leaned forward to help, but John pinned him to the wall with this forearm. Sherlock could do nothing but watch his love writhe in pleasure and pain from his own making, his knees bent and thighs stretching and grinding over his own.

Sherlock grabbed John by the ass and forced his thighs to open even wider. 

"John," whispered Sherlock. “I don’t have a condom.”

John nodded. "We're fine.” He leaned forward again and his hot tongue invaded Sherlock's wet, swollen mouth. Their cocks kissed each other, wet and hard and throbbing.

Sherlock lined himself up with John’s tight arsehole, spitting generously into his hand and rubbing it all over his cock. He didn’t wait for permission, but pushed down on John’s hips and thrusted up. John cried out the moment Sherlock breached him, his thighs trembling, his breath ragged, a look of sweet elation on his face. Sherlock held onto him and waited patiently, whispering soothing words and kissing him sweetly on the lips. John began to grind his hips, and Sherlock's head fell back hard against the stone as intense, exquisite heat squeezed his prick.

John's palms pushed against Sherlock's pale chest and as he rolled his thick, muscled hips in a steady rhythm on his lover’s lap. His tanned thighs, toned and strong, moved like consistent and unrelenting waves, milking Sherlock's cock buried deep inside. His neck arched as he threw his blond head back, an errant tear trickling down the side of his cheek as he gripped onto Sherlock's forearms. 

"John," whispered Sherlock. He pulled him close and kissed him gently to get his attention. He wiped away the tear with his thumb. 

"Fuck me harder," he begged. Sherlock gripped his waist and thrusted deeply, once, twice, three times. John cried out each time, fighting him, trying to escape his grasp. 

Sherlock gripped the back of John’s neck as his other hand grabbed one of his rolling hips. His cracked fingertips broke free of the makeshift bandages and smeared bloody fingerprints all over John’s thigh and chest. John saw it and shoved Sherlock’s bleeding index finger into his mouth and sucked. 

“Fuck,” breathed Sherlock, as more of his fingers played on John’s slick tongue. 

Sherlock pulled out his fingers and held on with both hands around John’s neck. Sherlock pounded into him, then slowed down, then pounded some more.

"Oooh Goddd," groaned John as Sherlock fucked him so good, their eyes locked as they moved together. Sherlock leaned in to kiss him deeply every few seconds as he thrusted harder into him, pushing his thighs wider, forcing himself deeper inside John’s tight little arse. He felt the spasms around him before he heard John's breath stop, and then warm come spilled between them, soaking their bellies as he continued to fuck up into John from the floor. He held John in place, his arms in a vice around his solid shoulders as he fucked him and fucked him and fucked him until he was coming with an intensity he’d never felt before. 

Sherlock collapsed against the wall and hit his head again. "Are you okay?" he asked. When John didn't answer, Sherlock touched his face. "John?"

"Yeah, I'm good," answered John. He smiled weakly at Sherlock. He looked as if the wrong word might break him.

Sherlock sat up and brought John into his arms. He stroked his blond head. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered. 

He then convinced John to stand, and after wiping him down, dressing him and wrapping him in his coat, took him back to the Sliver, where he helped him shower and put him to bed for the night. 

******

The next morning, before sunrise, Sherlock used Mycroft’s complimentary car service for the second time during his tenure at Cromwell to take John Watson home to his bed to heal. Sherlock insisted he ride along, and John, for once, let him care for him, holding him during the commute, helping him out of the car and up the stairs. When John realized he'd forgotten his key at the hospital, Sherlock picked the lock, which amused John to no end. 

Upon entering, however, Sherlock had to stifle a yelp. 

A man, 6 foot 3 inches tall, stood stark naked in front of the television set. His back was to the two men, revealing two strong legs the size of tree trunks, a round, firm ass attached to a well-defined back that traveled up in a perfect "V", ending at two broad shoulders harboring a pair of long, muscled arms. 

He turned when he heard the door open. Though flaccid, he was hung like a fucking horse, and his chest, broad and muscled, was covered in thin, reddish hair with a trail leading down to his impressive groin. His face, sporting a neatly trimmed auburn beard, was handsome and friendly, though his eyes possessed an intelligence his demeanor didn't express. 

He held out his arms wide, and approached the two men. 

"Johnny!" he shouted, stepping over the couch and embracing John Watson in an intimidating, not to mention naked, bear hug. 

Sherlock, shocked, wasn't sure what to do. John wasn't fighting back; in fact, by his disposition he seemed to be giving in to the giant's affections. He instead asked the obvious:

"And you are?"

Raibert released John, and stood in front of Sherlock, assessing him up and down, even licking his lips as his eyes grazed his groin. "Raibert MacDougal," he said in a thick Scottish brogue, holding out his hand. "And who might you be?" he purred. 

John cleared his throat, and stepped between them both. "Sherlock, this is my cousin Raibert. Who was supposed to be in Malta until Boxing Day."

Raibert pulled his eyes away from Sherlock, who was beginning to feel like prey, and gave John a shake on the shoulder. 

"Didn't you hear, dear cousin? They evacuated the island. Terrorist attack. All non essential personnel were deported."

"Ah," said John. "So that means..." 

"That means you're kipping on the sofa, my cousin!" said Raibert good-naturedly. "And my first chore will be to wash my sheets. They must be filthy. I'm sure Johnny's shagged you rotten many a night."

Sherlock turned red, but refused to be intimidated. "I believe, Mr. McDougal, that your first "chore" should be to put on some clothes."

Raibert smiled, and looked down at himself. He cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, and leaned in, whispering. "Aye. But when you're done practicing with the ponies, this stallion is always ready for a ride." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Raibert walked off, strutting around the room, looking for his pants. 

"Oh god, what did he say," said John. "Please tell me it wasn't about horses."

Sherlock sighed. "You can stay at my place." 

"Nah," said John. "I have rounds late tonight, and Raibert will go out and party since he's just back in town. I'll have the place to myself some."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. "You sure?"

John smiled. "I'll be fine.” Raibert walked by and popped open a beer, sitting heavily onto the couch. He stared up at them both. “Besides, I could use the distraction,” he said, shaking his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BanimalQ had the beautiful idea of Sherlock’s bloody fingerprints accidentally smearing all over John’s body while they fuck to show that John is now mixed up in this murder mystery as much as Sherlock.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a row as Sherlock’s lies are discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****this chapter contains attempted rape, violence, and dubious consent****

Sherlock made it back to Cromwell in time for Concert Band, but he found himself outside the door, unable to make himself go inside. He just stood there, students dodging past him, bumping him, staring at him, as evidence swirled around his brain like puzzle pieces unable to lock into place. 

He did the only thing he could think of.

He pulled out his phone, and began talking loudly. 

“Victor! I’m so relieved to hear from you! How are you?”

Players walking by slowed to listen, faces eager to hear news. Sherlock mouthed to them all “he’s doing great! Full recovery expected!”as he leaned into the phone, pretending to hear. “Victor, everyone wants to say hi!” He held up his phone, and everyone yelled their salutations and wished him well. “Did you hear that? Yeah, wait, you’re breaking up, hold on -” He winked at his fellow players and made like he was going outside. The crowd dispersed and entered into the classroom. He could already hear the chatter about Victor’s recovery.

Sherlock turned and backtracked up to the fourth floor practice room. He knew he would come this time, it was just a matter of when.

********. 

Sherlock knew he was there before he saw him, because the hairs suddenly stood up on the back of his neck. 

“Missed you in practice today,” a voice mewed behind him. 

Sherlock turned to see Brook casually leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. The maestro’s tongue clicked in disapproval. 

“You’re practicing too hard, Sherlock,” he said, “You’re fingertips are disgusting.”

“Talked to Victor today,” said Sherlock nonchalantly. 

Brook slowly shook his head. “No you didn’t.” He approached Sherlock and placed his hands on his thin shoulders. “Sherlock, stop fighting this. You’re in.”

“I’m in?” Sherlock repeated, confused. 

“You’re the new concertmaster!” Brook said grinning, giving Sherlock a friendly shake. “Only it’s a good idea to show up to practice so you can actually be the concertmaster.” Brook looked at him expectantly. “Aren't you excited? 

Brook reached around Sherlock and picked up his bow with the broken string. He twirled it lazily around in a circle. “Victor turned out to be so ordinary.” 

The bow struck the right side of Sherlock’s arse hard enough it knocked him off balance, but he caught himself on a chair before falling to the floor. He stood back up immediately, sweat glistening on his forehead. 

“Where’s Victor!”Sherlock demanded. “What did you do to him?”

Brook laughed. “Victor isn’t coming back, Sherlock.” 

“Why? Did you blow his cover? It he awaiting deportation? They'll kill him you know.”

Brook blinked. “I may have underestimated you, Sherlock.” He walked behind him and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s back. “You’re so tense. Here, let me help,” he purred. His fingers delicately plucked apart the buttons on his shirt. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, his hands forming fists. 

“Stop it.” He jerked away, but Brook held the bow to his neck. 

“That’s what I like about you, Sherlock. The others, they gave up too easily. You've got spirit. You’re not afraid.”

Brook lowered the bow, and his lips brushed against Sherlock’s earlobe. “It’s quite sexy,” he hissed.

“What’s going on here?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. John Watson stood in the doorway, glaring at Professor Brook. 

“Ah,” smiled Brook. “Just a little relaxation session before practice.” Brook’s hand dipped inside Sherlock’s shirt, palming his chest.

“Excuse me, who are you?” demanded John, making a beeline for Sherlock. He took hold of Brook’s wrist and pulled it out of Sherlock’s shirt. He backed Brook up against the wall.

“Ah,” said Brook flippantly. “Richard Brook, Sherlock’s professor.” He reached forward and held out his hand as if to shake. 

John’s jaw locked into place as his neck turned deep crimson. 

“What,” said Brook, “You more of a fist bump kinda guy?” He made a fist and pumped it into the air. 

“I ought to knock you flat on your arse,” growled John. 

“John,” warned Sherlock. “Stop.”

“Beat you with stick, see how you like it.”

“Quite a brute, isn’t he,” said Brook, laughing. “I bet he can fuck like a champ though. I get it, Sherlock. Working class dogs are a fetish of mine too.” Brook licked his lips, his eyes giving John’s body a thorough look.

“Sherlock, come with me,” he managed to say through gritted teeth.

“John,” said Sherlock firmly. 

John backed up and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pulling him along. Sherlock took a step with him, then stopped. 

“What -” said John, and glanced at his violin. “Just leave it. We’ll come back for it.”

“John,” said Sherlock again. They finally locked eyes. John gave him a reluctant, subtle nod.

“I know about your little operation underground,” Sherlock threatened. “I bet even Scotland Yard wouldn’t botch up such an open and shut case. Now tell me where Victor is.”

Brook's mood darkened, his expression sinister. 

“You’re prying,” he sneered. “It will end you.”

“Sherlock, we’re leaving, now,” said John. 

Brook glared at John, then back at Sherlock. “You’re dog is barking. Is it feeding time?” he snarled.

Sherlock took a step forward but John grabbed him, pulling him back by his shoulders and out the door. They fought and pushed at each other but John refused to let him go until they’d cleared all the stairwells and were safely outside the main hall, arguing and shouting in the courtyard. 

“I almost had him!” Sherlock shouted. “He was going to admit everything!”

“No, he wasn’t, Sherlock,” John shouted back angrily. “He was hurting you!” 

Sherlock glared at him, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t need you to protect me!” he shouted. “Brook killed Carl Powers, he may have killed Victor, and he’s parading around like he’s done NOTHING!”

“You don’t know that.”

“You saw it, John,” he pleaded. “You saw how that tunnel led to his office, how he used it to extract the bodies into the other passageway…”

“What other -” Sherlock realized he’d said it before John did, already starting to defend himself when John held out both his hands in front of him. 

“Sherlock,” he said, his eyes flashing, his jaw stiff with anger. “You promised me -” he stopped, his voice breaking as he let out a frustrated hum. “You promised,” he said again.

Sherlock looked away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. 

“I can’t do this,” said John, backing away. 

“John,” said Sherlock. “Wait.” 

“Is everything out of your mouth a lie?” John said accusingly. “Are you even a real student?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He bit his lower lip, his chin flattening against his jaw.

“Sherlock,” he said softly, shaking his head. He turned and walked quickly away. Sherlock followed after him. 

“John!” he begged. 

“Don’t,” John warned, and kept walking, leaving Sherlock behind in the courtyard. 

*********

Later that evening, Sherlock showed up at the flat. John had ignored every phone call and text Sherlock had sent. He hoped he at least wouldn’t turn him away in person. 

He was disappointed when Raibert answered the door. 

“Hey, Sherl,” said Raibert in his thick, rumbling brogue. “Johnny’s at the hospital, won’t be back until morning.” He raised his eyebrow. “Want to come inside?”

“No,” said Sherlock simply. He turned to walk back down the stairs. 

“Hey, Johnny said you two had a fight,” said Raibert. 

Sherlock stopped. “I think it was more than a fight,” he said sadly. 

“Oh?”said Raibert curiously. “You two break up?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. He continued to walk down the stairs.

*******

Sherlock's mind was no longer on Richard Brook, or Victor Trevor, or Carl Powers. He was consumed with how terrible he’d left things with John. Of course he’d lied, how else could he keep the investigation going? Lives were at stake. 

He glanced up as he was swarmed by a large group of uni students walking into a local pub. Sherlock thought it was a homeless man standing behind them at first, huddled next to a street lamp and lingering in the bushes for warmth. But upon second glance, Sherlock realized the man was actually Victor Trevor, wearing an oversized hoodie, filthy trousers and muddy shoes.

Sherlock slowed as he spotted him, treating the situation like seeing a spooked animal, not wanting to startle him lest he run away. He snuck up beside him. The coat wrapped around the young man’s shoulders was indeed covering an arm in a cast. 

“Victor,” Sherlock said softly. 

Victor jerked and turned, his eyes growing wide, then relaxing when he recognized Sherlock standing beside him. His eyes swelled up with tears. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he replied. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” He let out a laugh that sounded mostly like relief, as the tears released and slid down his cheeks. 

“Come on, I’ll buy you a pint,” said Sherlock, taking him discreetly by his good arm and leading him into the pub.

*******

“I’ve been searching everywhere for you,” admitted Sherlock. “It seems as if what Brook said was true.”

Victor had already downed one ale and was working on his second, when he froze at Sherlock’s words.

“What did Brook say, exactly?”

“He said you fell down the stairs and broke your arm at the concert hall,” said Sherlock. His eyes narrowed in thought. “But that’s not how it happened, is it?”

Victor laughed, but he was not amused. He rubbed his eyes with his uninjured hand, then pounded the table. “I hate that man, so…” He drank the rest of his ale, and wiped his mouth. “He broke my arm. After the first performance,” he said, looking directly at Sherlock. 

“Broke your arm? Why?”

“I confronted him about that night. The night you said you saw us,” He shook his head, as if wanting to erase the memory. “I told him that I wasn’t going to do that anymore. That it was too dangerous and people were going to find out.” 

“Where were you arguing?” 

“The storage closet, next to our rehearsal space. He said I’d do as I was told, or he’d make sure the authorities found out I was in the UK illegally. He said I’d be shipped back to Syria or thrown in prison.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I told him he wouldn’t dare, because I’d tell everyone who he was.”

Sherlock perked up, leaning in, his forearms flat against the table. 

Victor signaled the waiter for another ale. “See, I found some documents in his flat,” he said, lowering his voice. “Multiple passports with different names, all with his photograph. And he’d have to take these sudden phone calls. Sometimes he’d speak in German. I think it’s when he didn’t want me to understand what he was saying.”

“Do you have any idea what the calls were about?”

Victor shook his head. “I just know one phone call wasn’t like all the others. Brook was threatening someone. It was horrible. I kept hearing the man on the other line begging him, crying. But that’s all I remember.”

Sherlock took Victor’s now trembling hand in his own. “Victor, are you frightened of him?”

Victor again laughed without humor. His voice shook when he spoke. “I’m terrified. I haven’t been home in two days,” he said, looking down at his dirty shirt and pants. “I went to Barts because it’s on the other side of town to get my arm treated. I’ve just been hanging out here since,” he admitted. “Can you help me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock managed a small smile. “I believe I can.”

*****

The pub was growing more crowded each passing moment. Sherlock had seen to Victor’s safety, and now sat at the corner of the bar, texting furiously on his phone. 

"Hey there,” said a dark haired, handsome man. He leaned against the bar on Sherlock's left side, a bit too close. "What'll you have?"

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, then went back to his phone. "Not having. Working."

The dark-haired man seemed amused at first, then realized Sherlock was not joking. "Excuse me, but I just offered to buy you a drink."

Sherlock kept typing. “Yes, and I told you I’m working.”

Suddenly, another man, tall, blonde, and muscular, appeared at his other side. 

"Come on now, don’t be rude. The guy offered to buy you a drink," the blonde said.

Sherlock looked up, annoyed. “No, thank you.” He shook his head in disbelief, and continued to text.

The blonde’s beefy hand plucked the iPhone out of Sherlock’s grip.

“Let’s try this again,” said the dark haired man. “What’ll you have,” he said sternly.

Sherlock, wedged between the two men, desperately searched for the bartender, but he was on the other side of the bar, tending to some rowdy uni boys.

“I’m actually just leaving,” said Sherlock, standing. “May I have my phone?”

He waited, and the blonde reluctantly handed him back his phone.

Sherlock hurried away toward the back door, just as a fight broke out among the uni students at the opposite end of the bar. 

Suddenly, strong arms had him by the chest and mouth, and he was dragged across the floor the short distance to the men’s loo. 

The two men from the bar forced him inside, one holding him against the stall wall as the other locked the door. 

"So rude," said the dark-haired man. “I’m going to teach you some manners.” He grabbed Sherlock roughly by the hair and forced him onto his knees, while the blonde pulled his arms behind him so tightly his shoulder came within a breath of dislocating. 

Sherlock cried out, but the dark-haired man slapped him hard across the face. 

“Need to shut that mouth,” he said mockingly. “I know, I’ll shut it for you.” The man undid his fly, and pulled out his small, pathetic cock. 

Both of the men laughed as the dark-haired man rubbed it all over Sherlock's face. 

"Here’s the rules," he growled hotly into Sherlock's ear. "I even feel a graze of a tooth, I snap your neck." He forced Sherlock’s head back, his chin in the air, but Sherlock kept his lips pressed together tightly. 

“Open wide!” said the blonde, laughing, pulling his arms even tighter behind his back. He reached forward with one hand and violently began to squeeze his jaw. His lips parted slightly, and the dark-haired man pushed his cock into Sherlock’s lips. 

Sherlock fought as hard as he could, but it was no use. The prick, hard and leaking, was forced down his throat, the taste of salt and the rancid smell of his testicles making him want to vomit. 

There was a hard knock at the door. 

“Open up!”

“Fuck off!” the blonde yelled back. 

There was a sound of splitting wood and grinding metal, and the door of the bathroom suddenly flew inward and fell to the floor knocked clean off its hinges. In walked Raibert MacDougal, who assessed the situation mid-stride and gathered both horrible men by the necks and smashed their heads together. Sherlock ducked, and then threw up right on the bathroom floor. 

Raibert picked both men up by the scrap of their necks and drug them out into the pub, through the crowd, and into the street, much to the delight of the patrons, who gave him a round of applause as he returned inside. Raibert, of course, never one to ignore praise, bowed and waved, then remembered Sherlock was still in the bathroom. 

Sherlock was hanging over the sink, rinsing his mouth out repeatedly. 

Raibert handed him a towel, which he gratefully took, wiping his mouth and face and the back of his neck, trying to wash the memory of those two awful men away. 

"Thank you," said Sherlock gratefully. "You may have saved my life."

"Aye," said Raibert. "Those blokes were bad news. Come on, let me buy you a drink. You've had a shitty day."

Sherlock hesitated, but he’d had a shitty day, and he was so badly shaken up from it that he could barely bring himself to stand. He let Raibert help him up and bring him back to the bar, where the huge Scotsman muscled his way in, finding them both seats.

Raibert bought him an old fashioned, a sweet whiskey drink that Sherlock quite liked, and he drank until his stomach was warm and his mind was fuzzy. Raibert, much to Sherlock's surprise, turned out to be a charming and capable conversationalist. He spoke of Malta and his studies in India and his desire to join Doctors without Borders. He spoke of his family, and when he brought up John, he stopped, seemingly regretting it immediately. 

"No, go ahead, talk about him," said Sherlock, his speech slightly slurred. "Doesn’t bother me."

Raibert set another drink in front of Sherlock, which he gladly put to his lips. "What happened between you two?"

"It doesn’t matter," said Sherlock angrily. "It's over.”

Raibert goaded him on. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock took another sip of his whiskey. "Did you know I'm a detective?" He brought his finger to his lips, and shushed loudly. "But don't tell anybody. John doesn't know." He paused. "I probably should have told him."

Raibert leaned forward, and draped his arm over Sherlock's shoulders. "Hey, John has a temper. Always has," said Raibert kindly, rubbing Sherlock's back. "It’s not your fault he didn’t stop to listen."

Sherlock contemplated Raibert's words as well as he could through his growing buzz. "You think so?"

"I know so," whispered Raibert. He gently brushed a finger against Sherlock's cheekbone. "You need someone to be there for you. You have your reasons for keeping secrets." He leaned in closer, his breath hot on Sherlock's cheek. "Especially when you're trying to protect them." 

Raibert leaned in and gently brushed his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock responded, kissing him back ever so softly. And then suddenly, Raibert pulled back, looking shocked. 

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he said. "I shouldn't have done that. You've just went through a breakup and after what happened tonight..."

Sherlock was thoroughly confused. Everything he knew about Raibert was being turned completely on its head. This was a man concerned for his safety, for his well-being. He'd protected him from those horrible men. Sherlock leaned into him. 

"Why don't you let me decide what's best for me," he said in his deepest baritone, and pulled Raibert down for another kiss. 

*******

It felt odd being in the flat without John. 

They hadn’t stopped snogging since they'd left the pub. Raibert made quick work of discarding his own clothing once the door was closed. Sherlock tried to pull off his shirt, but Raibert had to help him. He nudged him toward the bed, but when the backs of Sherlock’s knees hit the mattress, he quickly pressed his hands against Raibert’s enormous chest in protest. 

“No bed,” he slurred. “Couch.”

Raibert obeyed, helping Sherlock undo his trousers and making quick work of shucking his pants and socks. 

His huge hands were then in Sherlock’s hair, his lips kissing his forehead, his eyes gazing into him hungrily. Again they kissed passionately, Raibert’s tongue slowly unraveling what was left of Sherlock’s misgivings. Sherlock felt broken, and he needed someone to put him back together again, even if those pieces weren’t going to hold together for very long.

Raibert picked him up and pinned him against the wall. Sherlock heard himself groan as he scrambled to grip the Scotsman’s huge powerful shoulders. A warm, slick tongue licked his neck, his nipples. Teeth gently scraped his pectorals. He wrapped his long legs around the giant's hips as his head fell back and hit the wall hard. 

He felt huge hands massaging his behind, then a finger gently rubbing along his center. Raibert’s slick tongue began probing his mouth like the fingers now inside his arse. The fingers fucked him over and over until he found himself grinding down onto the Scotsman's hand, wanting more. 

Raibert dropped Sherlock's legs and gracefully knelt to the ground, his face aligned with the younger man's groin. Sherlock cried out as his hard, slender cock was swallowed whole, thick fingers continuing to fill him up, in and out, over and over. 

“Oh my God,” gasped Sherlock, holding on to Raibert's auburn locks for dear life. It felt like a dozen men were sucking him at the same time, a dozen men fucking him, holding him, forcing him to feel it all. 

Raibert collapsed back onto the couch, Sherlock landing halfway on his lap. He watched the huge Scotsman dig into the nightstand and pull out two bottles and a condom. He slapped his thighs, and grinned. 

“Anytime you’re ready, Sherl,” he said, spreading his powerful legs wide, his huge, leaking cock red and lying against his six pack abs.

Sherlock crawled on top of him, and Raibert slicked his fingertips up with lubricant and again pressed into Shelrock’s tight arsehole. He heard the condom unwrap, heard Raibert say his name. 

He remembered later that the bottle was brown. He leaned forward and smelled it just like Raibert told him too.

A rush of heat, just a rush of something, and Sherlock was whimpering into Raibert’s mouth. “Fuck me, fuck me,” he heard himself whine. And that huge cock filled him up, and Sherlock felt no pain, and he rode him for what felt like days, gripping the back of his thick, muscled neck, rubbing his cheek against his sweaty forehead, grinding his leaking cock against his rippled stomach. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt strong arms holding him, a huge cock pound up into him over and over and over, and his throat burned, and he sobbed as that gigantic prick made him come untouched so hard and for so long that he cried out, “John, ooooh Jooohhhnn!” 

He remembers the couch was soft as he laid his head down afterward. He remembers thinking how the room spun like that time he and Mycroft went to Disneyworld and rode the teacups. 

That’s basically all he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raibert MacDougal looks just like Colby Keller.
> 
> If you are not familiar with Colby Keller's work, please google him immediately unless you are at work then google him when you get home. He is a gay porn star and is the creator of "Colby Does America". 
> 
> Disclaimer: Colby Keller is American and from what I can tell is nothing like Raibert MacDougal in real life. Raibert is a selfish arse where Colby seems like an upstanding, smart, sweet man. Colby is also an artist and his work kicks ass.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Watson family secret is revealed. Neon green headphones make everyone’s day, sort of. John and Sherlock christen the crime scene.

Sherlock was back in the Sliver, buried under his blankets, cursing the sunshine and wishing he were dead. His head throbbed as much as his heart ached, both ailments taking turns at overwhelming him to tears. If he hadn't lost John before with his lies, he'd definitely lost him for what he’d done last night.

His phone was filled with texts and voicemails he hadn’t answered. He knew it wouldn’t be long before someone roused him out of bed. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He was never leaving the Sliver again.

A surprise knock at the door had Sherlock immediately shouting from his bed.

"Go away Billy!”

"It's John," said the voice on the other side of the door.

Sherlock sat up, and immediately regretted it. He rested his forehead in his palms. 

"Sherlock," said John, his voice muffled. "Open the door."

Sherlock suddenly felt terribly cold and he shivered, holding his arms across his chest, warming his shoulders. He didn't have the energy for this. He couldn't face this now, not after what he'd done.

"I really don't want to break down this door."

Sherlock reached over and undid the lock. His was hair wild, his eyes swollen, his body weak. "You’d break your shoulder before the door would give," Sherlock couldn’t help saying. 

John smirked as he walked in, throwing his rucksack and a large duffle bag on the desk. "Guess we'll never know now will we?"

John closed the door behind him and sat down in the only chair in the room. Sherlock stared at the floor as he wrapped his blankets around him tighter, as if to brace himself against John's forthcoming tirade. 

But John didn’t seem angry, just worried and sad, which then made Sherlock even more distraught. Did he not know what had happened? Was Sherlock going to have to tell him, right here, right now what he had done? He didn't know if his heart, or his stomach, could take it. 

John finally cleared his throat, and said, "I wanted to apologize for -"

"I slept with Raibert," Sherlock blurted out. He closed his eyes tightly and bowed his head, waiting for the fallout. 

John nodded his head grimly. “I know.” 

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide with shock. “You do?" He swallowed. “How?”

"I saw you, this morning,” he said somberly. “I was on the way back from rounds. I saw you walk out of the flat.”

Sherlock again couldn't look him in the eye, his shame evident all over his face. 

"What happened?" John finally asked.

“After we argued, I went to the flat. Raibert said you were at hospital, so I started home. But then I ran into Victor Trevor.”

“So he is alive,” said John passively.

Sherlock curled up into a tighter ball. “We went into the pub. Victor left. I sat at the bar, and these two men came up and wouldn’t leave me alone. And I walked away, but they grabbed me, locked me in the loo, made me...” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. 

“Two men attacked you?” John crouched down in front of the bed. “Are you alright?” He took Sherlock’s hand in his own.

Sherlock nodded. “Raibert was suddenly there, and he pulled them off of me.” Sherlock looked up, his pale eyes glassy. “He helped me up, got me some drinks to calm me down. And later it just...happened.”

Silent, fat tears began rolling down Sherlock’s cheeks. He gripped John’s hand like a vice. “I miss you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I know what I did. But you’re what I want.” He wiped at the tears with his fingers. “I had you, and I ruined it.” The nasty headache he’d been enduring all morning suddenly returned with a vengeance. He leaned back against the wall, covering his eyes with his forearm.

“Here,” said John, digging into his bag then crawling next to him on the bed. He slipped two acetaminophen into his palm and made him grip a bottle of water with the other. “Take it.”

Sherlock took the pills and drank the entire bottle of water in a series of nonstop gulps. John reached up and began smoothing out Sherlock’s wild curls with his fingers. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered, a fresh set of tears flowing from the sides of his eyes. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I think you do,” John said softly, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s wild, dark locks and briefly massaging his skull. Without a word, John gathered the young man into his arms and pulled him tightly to his chest. Sherlock gasped with a strange mix of relief and disbelief before embracing him just as tightly in return. 

His shoulders shook with a few quiet sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he managed, his voice strained and muffled. 

“It’s alright,” soothed John. “We’ll get through this.”

Sherlock looked up. “We will?” he said, his eyes flashing with hope. 

“‘Course we will,” John replied assuredly. 

“You still want me?” asked Sherlock. “After everything, after last night…”

“Sherlock, there’s something you should know about Raibert,” John said carefully. “He seems simple, and harmless, just a shameless flirt. But he’s manipulative. And selfish. Quite a charlatan, actually.”

“What do you mean?” said Sherlock. His head was feeling much better, but the thought of being tricked by someone like Raibert made his stomach turn.

“If you'd been with me, if I hadn't have stormed off-" John swallowed hard. "I know my cousin. I told him you were off limits, no matter what, and he still took what he wanted.”

“John,” said Sherlock, dropping his head. “I went willingly.”

“I know,” replied John. “Yet you were ripe for the picking.” John took a deep breath, anger flushing his chest. “Sherlock, think about it. You had just been attacked, we were on the outs, Victor suddenly turns up. You were a virgin up until a few days ago.” Sherlock looked at him as if he’d just landed a cheap shot, but John just shrugged his shoulders. “I’d bet a million quid he said exactly what you needed to hear. ‘John has a temper. He doesn’t understand you. You need someone to be there for you when things get tough.’”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as John repeated everything Raibert had said to him. 

“Then, he plied you with some strong, sweet alcohol, sucked your cock, shoved some Brown under your nose and fucked you until you passed out.”

Sherlock sat, dumbfounded. “Brown?”

John smirked. “Do you remember a brown bottle?” Sherlock nodded. “Amyl nitrate. Poppers. That’s probably why you have such a terrible headache. You’ve not got a normal hangover.”

“I don’t understand, why would he do that to me?”

John was silent for a long time. He seemed far away, deep in thought. He started to speak, changed his mind, then changed his mind again and said, “Raibert had me. When I was sixteen.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What?” he said in disbelief.

“I knew I liked blokes,” John said thoughtfully. “I didn’t want my mum to know I was poof, especially since dad had died and we were struggling. Didn't want to lay that on her too, you know? And I truly thought it would all go away if I fucked enough girls.”

“Raibert had you?” Sherlock repeated. 

“Raibert was home from college,” said John. “He stopped by the house about the time I got home from school. Mum was out, worked the night shift, Harry, of course, had been gone for years by then. Raibert had this bartender book, we made these drinks, White Russians I think. I was right pissed.” John’s face changed as he continued. He became melancholy. “I let him fuck me face down on my own bed.” John looked up, remembering. “Years later at a family reunion the cousins all went out and got pissed and we found out Raibert had fucked us all. Boys, girls.” He shook his head. “Except for Harry. She wanted nothing to do with him, old girl.”

“John,” said Sherlock somberly. “That is the most disgusting story I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, it's completely fucked,” John said softly. “I've done things I'm not proud of either, Sherlock. Lots of things." John suddenly looked very sad. He took Sherlock's hand into his and squeezed. 

They both let the silence hang between them for while, both too exhausted to continue. 

Sherlock shifted a bit, his head still sore, his arse, he realized, even more so. 

"You do know the secrets between us have to stop,” John said wearily. 

“I know,” said Sherlock, looking warily at John. “And no, I'm not a student.”

 

*****************

There was a knock at the door exactly one hour later. John opened the door to find Mycroft standing on the other side, dressed in black three piece suit, a red tie and holding a watch connected to a gold chain.

“Mr. Watson. Pleasure to see you again,” said Mycroft briskly. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded from inside the room. 

“Ah, there you are,” replied Mycroft evenly. “Sherlock, I think you should get down to the courtyard. You’ve caused quite a spectacle.”

As the three men entered the courtyard, two were shocked to find police cars, a fire engine and an ambulance all parked with lights flashing in front of the old main hall. One entire side of the entrance’s landscaping had been completely pulled, including the thick ivy that once hung over the now exposed ancient doorway. Men and women in hazmat suits walked in and out of the entrance carrying debris and evidence from below. 

“Sherlock!” A police officer approached the two young men. “I’ve been calling and texting you all bloody day. Where the fuck where have you been?” he said impatiently. He stopped to size up John. “Who’s this?”

“Officer Lestrade, meet John Watson,” said Sherlock. 

The men shook hands, and Lestrade grinned at Sherlock. “The doctor?” 

“Uh, medical student,” John corrected. “I’ve still got a couple of weeks before its official.”

“Right,” he said. Lestrade winked at Sherlock and motioned for them all to follow. “Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Please tell me it’s Brook in handcuffs,” said Sherlock, matching strides with the officer. 

“Nope, Brook disappeared,” answered Lestrade angrily as they approached one of the police cars. Lestrade retrieved a cardboard evidence box from the trunk and placed it on the hood. Inside were dozens of plastic bags filled and sealed, but one caught Sherlock’s eye. He reached in and pulled it out. 

It was a pair of green Beats headphones. 

“Where?” demanded Sherlock. 

“Locked in his desk drawer,” Lestrade said appreciatively. “Should have a toxicology report by week’s end.”

“You think someone poisoned his headphones?” asked John incredulously.

“Not someone,” said Sherlock. “Brook.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he leave them behind?”

When Lestrade and Sherlock refused to answer, Mycroft spoke up. “Because he wanted someone to find them.”

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock asked haughtily. 

“To let you know your friend Victor is quite safe,” he said sincerely. “And to congratulate you. I never thought you had it in you, baby brother. To masquerade as a student to capture a criminal mastermind, though rather unconventional, I’m still quite proud.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He got away, Mycroft. Or have you been paying attention?”

“Nevertheless,” said Mycroft. “I’m impressed. 

“I still don’t understand why you all think Brook killed Carl Powers,” said John innocently.

Mycroft, Lestrade and Sherlock exchanged glances.

“Might as well tell ‘em. It’ll all be in the news soon enough,” said Lestrade.

“The Powers family is a legacy at Cromwell,” said Sherlock. “Very well connected, but currently facing financial ruin due to bad investments. Carl senior is the conductor for the Munich Symphony. His son Carl junior was accepted into Cromwell despite terrible scores and ability.”

“Catacombs in London are rare,” he said, glancing up at the main hall. “Yet rumors persist there are treasures hidden within the tunnels or the coffins themselves. There’s an urban legend that states wealthy patrons hid their priceless possessions in these particular passages during World War II.” 

“Carl senior was desperate, and he decided it was worth a shot to go looking for the loot. He hired Brook to make a donation to the music school under another name so that construction on the new practice rooms could begin, leaving the catacombs empty. Carl senior vouched for Brook’s fake credentials and the school hired him to teach, putting him in the perfect position to look for the treasure without suspicion.”

“But Brook never found anything,” John realized. “So he wasn’t getting repaid for the money he’d put up front for the fourth floor rehab.”

“Precisely, John,” said Sherlock, his eyes flashing. “Carl senior tried to back out of the deal, and in retaliation, Brook killed his son.”

John still shook his head. “But why did he take the headphones? Seems like a silly way to get caught.”

“Brook weighed his options, decided it was safer to take the headphones than to let the police find them. There was an excellent chance no one would know they were even missing, especially since the father wouldn’t be pressing for further investigation,” said Sherlock. “The poison wouldn’t show up on the blood screen, and any remnants would be washed off in the shower. All he had to do was crawl up on the Sliver’s ledge, roll Carl him into the bathroom after he’d passed out and turn on the water.” He paused. “Leaving the headphones for the police to find today, on the other hand, is rather perplexing,” he admitted.

“Well, we never would have found them if it weren’t for you,” said Lestrade, patting him on the shoulder. “Keep this up, we might consider even payin’ ya.” Lestrade wandered back off to the investigation, just as a black car with heavily tinted windows pulled up. Without a word, Mycroft got in the car and it drove away. 

“That was brilliant,” said John, smiling at Sherlock. “Amazing. You really are a detective.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, John,” Sherlock said, smiling back. “But if you hadn’t pulled me away from Brook...I see the danger I was in now. I’ve been meaning to ask, why did you come back that day?”

“I wanted to tell you in person. The hospital called. The autopsy on Sam revealed all the clamps had been removed. The PA made a mistake on the paperwork.” He faced saddened. “She died of viral infection she must've contracted before the procedure. I was relieved at first, that it wasn’t my fault, but...”

Sherlock placed a gloved hand on the back of John’s head. “You tried to save her life, John. I’m sure wherever she is now she’s grateful.” Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. “I know I am.”

 

********

Sherlock and John had the Sliver stripped clean by the time the sun was setting the next day. Wiggins had stopped by to give his farewells. In a desperate attempt to control public fallout, Cromwell’s Board of Directors issued immediate diplomas to all seniors in good standing plus generously discounted the semester’s tuition. Wiggins was taking the refund and blowing it on a trip to Ibiza.

“Wish we were going on holiday in Ibiza,” mumbled John. 

“I'd settle for you taking a shower,” said Sherlock, crinkling his nose. 

John laughed. “You’re one to talk.” John pulled Sherlock close and kissed him.

“Will it ensure us a straight ticket to hell if we shag in the crime scene?” said Sherlock, gesturing towards the bathroom. 

There was a moment’s hesitation. There really was. But within seconds they had both stripped off each other’s clothing, and Sherlock had pulled John into the shower. 

The water was hot and glorious as it poured over the two young men’s cold and clammy skin. John wasted no time in massaging Sherlock's dark curls into a mess of suds. The soap mixed with the shower stream became obscenely slick. John dipped his fingers into the cleft of Sherlock's behind, soaping the inside of the young man's body just as his tongue slipped firmly into Sherlock's hot, open mouth. Rivulets of water trickled from Sherlock's long eyelashes and down his pink-stained cheekbones, his hair dark and slicked back, exposing his long graceful neck, his slender fingers holding onto John, balancing himself against the onslaught of pleasure now wracking his body.

"Sherlock," breathed John. "God, look at you. Let me fuck you. Right now.” 

Sherlock responded by turning around and gripping John’s cock, rubbing it up and down the cleft of his arse. 

John dropped to his knees, his tongue sliding from the tip of Sherlock's jutting tailbone all the way to his center, working the soft flesh with his tongue until it began to loosen. 

"John," groaned Sherlock, his cheekbones and pale chest pressed up against the well-worn tile, his arse pushing back into John’s probing tongue.

"You taste so good, sweetheart," said John breathlessly, his tongue sinking deeper inside his lover’s sweet little arsehole as his fingers stretched perfect pale buttocks further apart. Sherlock squirmed as John gripped his hips, John licked, kissed and fucked him with his tongue until he was writhing mess against the shower stall. 

“John, don’t make me wait,” groaned Sherlock. John released his hips and stood up, just as Sherlock bent over and pushed his round bottom into John’s groin. “I trust you. Please, I need it. I need you.”

John didn’t hesitate a moment. Sherlock watched as he slicked himself up with spit and gently guided his cock into his arse. 

Sherlock let out a quick sob of distress, and he felt John hold on to him steadily, letting him adjust to his girth, his length. Finally, Sherlock pushed oh so slowly back against him, and John groaned in pleasure. 

"Oh God you feel so good," sighed John. “Keep doing that."

Sherlock slowly moved his hips back and forth, up and down, his arms reaching back, his hands gripping John’s thighs as they moved in a firm, gentle rhythm. Sherlock moaned in pleasure as John thrusted faster, then harder, then deeper until Sherlock could feel the coarse hair of John's groin tickling his behind. 

Sherlock pushed his back up against John's chest. "John," he whispered, relishing in his heat, his arms holding him in place, his huge thick cock filling him up, over and over.

He twisted and strained and found John's hot, wet mouth, kissing him hungrily.

John broke the kiss, violently pulling Sherlock's hips up with the crook of his forearm, forcing Sherlock's, round, plump arse further in the air. John braced himself on the shower wall with a splayed hand and began fucking Sherlock deeply, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. Sherlock grunted, his hand scrambling to grip John's forearm holding him tight, his other hand keeping his forehead propped up to keep the water from running up his nose. John's thrusts became violent, the pocket door jiggling in rhythm with the their lovemaking.

John broke stride briefly to pull Sherlock upright, manhandling up against the tile. 

"Hold yourself against the wall," he breathed, as he grabbed Sherlock's shaking hand and planted it against the tile. 

He pushed Sherlock's legs apart, held him by the waist and continued to fuck him, this time shallow and quick, a steady slap of thighs echoing in the shower. Sherlock realized with his thrusts John was brushing that sweet spot inside of him, and his soft cock began to fill out until it was bobbing wildly against his thighs and abdomen as John continued to fuck him into the wall. 

"Oh God, John, oh God," whined Sherlock, as he squirmed against the wall, adjusting his hips as John's cock pleasured him over and over. 

"Touch yourself," John commanded. "Make yourself come. That's it."

Sherlock grabbed his hard, flopping cock and rubbed it vigorously up and down. John's thrusts were becoming erratic, his arm gripping his waist hard so hard he could barely breath. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and yes, YES it was happening. He felt it building and building and building until he couldn’t stop himself, and he shouted and groaned and pushed back against John’s body violently, milking him, making him work for it, twisting and grinding and reveling in being penetrated, desired, loved. 

Sherlock released all over his hand, the tile and shower floor just as John came inside of him, filling him up with warm come, it mixing with the shower steam as it dripped down between his thighs. 

John pulled out gently, and Sherlock turned to face him, kissing him sweetly.

“I like fucking in the shower,” he purred. 

“You do?” said John, rinsing his cock off. 

“Prep, clean up, I dare say it’s why it was invented.”

It was then the hot water disappeared. Both men shouted in unison and jumped simultaneously out of the bathroom to avoid the freezing water pouring out of the shower head. 

John laughed as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to miss this place.”

“Sherlock,” said John, taking turns wiping down Sherlock and then himself. “Did you really do all this to find a missing pair of headphones?”

Sherlock looked around the tiny dorm room, but his eyes finally landed on the bathroom floor. He reached forward and turned off the shower spray. “Carl Powers was murdered, but no one noticed. No one cared. A young man’s life was taken away, for no reason, and I knew if I had the time and the resources that I could figure out who did it.”

“So you were bored,” John replied jokingly. 

Sherlock cracked a real smile for the first time in days. “I was bored,” he repeated, his eyes sparkling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge kudos to my precious BanimalQ who was the sick fuck who came up with the idea that Raibert had slept with all his cousins sans Harry. It was a stroke of genius that added another dimension to the Watson family mess.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 221B Baker Street at last

TWO YEARS LATER

Sherlock sits on the couch, wrapped in a white sheet and looking miserable. His violin is laying the coffee table. Mrs. Hudson enters with a tray of biscuits and tea.

“It seems like you just moved in yesterday,” she says kindly. “It’s been so nice having you close again.” She reaches down and pats Sherlock on the shoulder. “You were always my favorite.” She winks, then squeezes his shoulder hard enough Sherlock winces. “Don’t tell your brother,” she whispers. 

Sherlock smiles in spite of himself. He picks up his violin and randomly plucks the strings. 

“And where’s your better half?” she asks, nosily poking through the kitchen. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, she suddenly stops and returns to the living area. 

“He hasn’t gone already has he?” 

“No,” says Sherlock. “Not yet.”

“Oh dear,” clicks Mrs. Hudson as John enters the sitting room.

His blond hair has been shaved down close to his head. He’s dressed in a dark suit with a bright white collared Oxford, his old duffel bag draped over one shoulder. 

“Harry just texted. She’ll be here any minute,” says John, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the floor.

“I’ll leave you be,” says Mrs. Hudson. She squeezes John on the shoulder in a tender, motherly gesture and heads back downstairs.

John looks at Sherlock, who refuses to look back. John sighs. 

“I’m going to be less than 60 kilometers away, Sherlock,” says John. “It’s Sandhurst for Christ’s sake.”

“But you won’t be here,” he pouts. “Baker Street’s our home.”

John sits down next to Sherlock, taking his hand in his. “It is our home. And I’ll be on leave before you know it.”

Sherlock smiles weakly, and bringing the back of John’s hand to his lips. “I guess I will have a boyfriend in uniform.” Sherlock gives John a smoldering look. 

John licks his lips. “Yeah, see, that’s the way we need to think.” John leans forward and kisses him gently. 

“You should take off those pressed clothes,” mumbles Sherlock, pulling him close. “We don’t want them to get wrinkled.”

“We definitely don’t have time for that,” John chuckles. “Did Lestrade give you some more cases?”

“He did,” says Sherlock. “In fact, I’ve got a potential serial killer. It’s like Christmas!”

“Speaking of Christmas, I have a gift for you.” John pulls out a wrapped box from under the couch. 

Sherlock tears into it like a five year old. He opens the box and pulls out a long, blue scarf. 

He stands up, the sheet dropping to the floor, revealing his long, lithe naked body. He wraps the scarf around his neck, and presents himself to John. 

John licks his lips, trying to keep his focus, but is nevertheless distracted by Sherlock's gleaming pale thighs and slender prick jostling right in front of him. He sits on his hands to keep himself from reaching forward and direct that long, delicious cock straight into his now salivating mouth. 

“It suits you quite well, I must say,” he manages to say. 

Sherlock leans forward and kisses him. “Thank you.”

John’s phone buzzes. He looks down. 

“Harry’s here.”

As he stands to leave, John expects another pouting spectacle from his significant other. 

Instead, Sherlock steps forward, gently gathers John’s face in his large hands, and says:

“John Watson, you’re the bravest, wisest, kindest man I’ve ever met,” he says endearingly. 

“Sherlock…” John says, but Sherlock cuts him off with a long, deep kiss. 

A car horn honks outside. 

John pulls away, but presses his forehead against Sherlock’s chin. 

“Take care, alright? I’ll be back before you know it.” he says, misty-eyed. 

Sherlock is silent as John turns and hoists the duffel back onto his shoulder. He hurries down the stairs. He doesn’t look back. 

The room is now quiet. 

Sherlock picks up his violin and bow and begins to play. 

The piece suddenly morphs into bars resembling The Reichenbach Concerto. Sherlock's playing becomes angry and uneven until he pulls the instrument from his chin and glares out the window, deep in thought. 

"It's not over," he mumbled to himself. "I'm going to find you, Richard Brook." 

To Be Continued.../p>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for a continuation of this story called "The UnMaking of John Watson" to be posted by early 2017. 
> 
> John's tumultuous childhood is explored as well as his time in the military, where his separation from Sherlock takes it's toll on both their lives.


End file.
